Inkheart: The Untold Story
by PrizJefra
Summary: This is basicly a collection of the events that were mentioned in Inkheart but were never really told in detail. For example, includes "How the Piper got his nose Cut off" and "When Dustfinger got his scars." You know, those stories? Now taking requests :
1. How The Piper Got his Nose Cut Off

When the Piper Got his Nose Cut Off

Rated M for cursing and some sexual themes

The Piper stood in the backyard of a well-maintained house, leaning against the dusty stone wall. He was nervous, for sure, but inspired and couldn't wait for the night's adventures to begin. He chuckled. _Night's adventures. How appropriate. _

When he was sure that the man of the house was gone for good, he opened his mouth and began to sing softly into the cold night.

"_Stars above in the blackest sky,_

_You sparkle as fierce as my lover's eye._

_You watch the earth with a gaze so bright._

_But have you seen…my love tonight?_"

The Piper paused. The white curtain in one of the window's fluttered slightly and, alas, a girl looked out. When she saw him she smiled and disappeared. The girl was young, maybe fourteen and still had the baby fat of an ignorant youth upon her rosy cheeks. _It's almost a crime to seduce her in this way,_ the Piper thought, _but in the end we shall get what we've worked so hard for._

The girl appeared at the back door, holding a candle. The fact that she was wearing a long, white night gown and had her hair down made her look all the more young. She smiled.  
"_Alas, my love, you have come to me_

_A dainty young girl, who is oh so lovely_

_I beckon you, miss, come with me; here_

_You kiss my lips, and I'll take you there."_

The girl came to him, treading softly, a dazed look on her face. It was working. His voice had put her into a sort of oblivious trance. He pulled her by her hand, leading her away from the bright garden and into the surrounding woods. He kissed her.

"_What have we here, a look of pure lust?_

_Well, lucky me, because you're so robust._

_Lips like petals, a porcelain skin tone_

_Legs oh so long, love, you're full grown!_"

She let out a small laugh. He sat her down near the edge of a creek, away from curious eyes. She flinched when he began to rub her neck, her back, and her thighs, but still smiled. However, she couldn't help letting out a tiny gasp when his wandering hands got a bit too confident. He lulled her back into oblivion with his silver voice.

"_Oh, hush now girl, lie back, like that_

_Don't be so shy, you silly little cat._

_I love you, I adore you, I promise I do_

_So, here, let me give…something to you._

_Some call it magic; some call it true beauty,_

_But I call it, my dear, Lover's Duty_

_You show me yours, and I'll show you mine_

_Come now, like that, you'll do it just fine."_

The Piper could feel excitement coursing through his veins as the girl lay back, letting him hitch up her dress, being much too shy to say no. She was still under his quiet spell and she would be for a while. Long enough at least. Feeling drunk with desire, he undid his own shirt, placing her small, pale hand on his stiff crotch. The girl gave a slight whimper when her dress was removed completely and for a minute or two the Piper knelt there, admiring the young, innocent, naked body.

And then he stopped.

He heard footsteps. Loud, determined footsteps. _Damn it_, he thought, extinguishing the candle's firelight. Whoever it was had spotted the light of the candle_. _The girl bolted up, the spell snapping under his agitation, and called out her father's name.

"Isa?" came the voice of the person rushing towards them.

"Quiet!" The Piper hissed at the girl, but it was too late, for a man as thick and heavy as a tree trunk rushed towards them. It was the girl's father. The man looked slightly dazed but then his eyes fell on the Piper.

"What are you doing here?" he boomed "Get out-" But his eyes had fallen on his daughter, naked, dazed, and shivering.

"Piper, you sonofabitch!"

"No! We didn't…I…I promise-"

But the man had scooped up the Piper in his thick arms and shook the poor man like a ragdoll.

"You were seducing her with your dark songs again, weren't you?" he growled.

"No! No, sir," the Piper choked. Then, to the young man's horror, the girl's father pulled out a grimy knife.

"This is to ensure that you don't cause any more trouble," he snarled. And with that he let the knife down on the Piper's nose.

xXxXx

Later that night the Piper sat in Nettle's hut, his eyes watering. He had a cloth stretched across his face. He could not smell the heavy ointment of which the woman had put on his face, for his nose was cradled in his lap, wrapped in silvery cloth. Voice quavering (he had to try,) he began to sing;

"_Stars above in the blackest sky,_

_You sparkle as fierce like my lover's eye._

_You watch the earth with eyes so bright_

_But have you seen, my love tonight?_

_Alas, oh stars you have brought her to me_

_A dainty young girl, who is oh so lovely_

_I beckon you, miss, come with me; here_

_You kiss my lips, and I'll take you there._

_What have we here, a look of pure lust?_

_Well, lucky me, because you're so robust._

_Lips like petals, a porcelain skin tone_

_Legs oh so long, love, you're full grown!_

_Oh, hush now girl, lie back, like that_

_Don't be so shy, you feisty little cat._

_I love you, I adore you, I promise I do_

_So, here, let me give…something to you._

_Some call it magic; some call it true beauty,_

_But I call it, my dear, Lover's Duty_

_You show me yours, and I'll show you mine_

_Come now, like that, you'll do it just fine."_

His new voice was high, oddly strained. But it held a dark, handsome note that was once seductive and cruel at the same time.

Outside, Capricorn and his fire-raisers rode by. When Capricorn heard the wavering voice wafting from the Nettle's hut he felt his hackles raise. One day he would hunt out that voice and teach him to sing much, much darker songs.

**Author's Note: Whoa, anybody else notice that that felt just like Romeo and Juliet? Thanks for reading! Reviews are much appreciated!**


	2. When Basta got his Arms Burnt

How Basta Got His Arms Burnt

Rated M for violence, cursing, and lewd references. Dang Cockerell, making my ratings go up :(

Capricorn sat upon his throne, deep in thought. Earlier that day his proposal had been rudely turned down by his sweetheart's father.

"_I'm sorry," the foolish man had said sternly "But I just don't want my daughter to have anything to do with a man like you."_

That man was brave; he had to give him that. No one dared refuse anything to Capricorn unless they had a death wish…but this man truly was something else. Capricorn could take the girl by force, yes, but that would be too merciful. He wanted revenge. The man had his death wish granted.

The girl herself, though. She was not particularly beautiful, but she had a certain grace and wisdom about her that was rare among others her age. Capricorn had first spotted her dancing and giggling in the halls of The Castle of Night where he had been called on urgent business. When he had talked to her she had displayed a radiant personality matched by wise, confident theories that astounded even him. Later that day he had had his men follow her home and give her father a note, informing him of his interest. It's not that he was aroused sexually by this young woman (such a sport had become quite uninteresting to a man as constantly busy as himself,) but it was more that he was fascinated by her wit and entrancing grace. And he always got what he wanted, so naturally he was surprised when two days later her father marched into his fortress, denying his request in a loud and defiant tone.

So now Capricorn sat, thinking of an appropriate punishment. He inspected his fingernails thoughtfully. Just taking the girl and letting the man live wasn't cruel enough. The only solution would be to kill the man and his daughter along with him. It was a waste, he knew, but _no one_ said "no" to Capricorn.

"Basta!" he beckoned his top dog. Basta was at his side faster than the speed of light, head bowed respectfully.

"Yes, sir?"

"I need you to do a little chore for me."

"What may that be?" he asked, a little too eagerly.

Capricorn regarded his henchman in silence. This man before him, Basta…what was wrong with him? What made this man so..._loyal_, so trusting? Everyone, including Capricorn noticed the puppy-like submission in which Basta gave himself so faithfully to his master; the way he tried to hide a grin whenever Capricorn praised him, the way he sprang into action whenever Capricorn asked of his service, the way he looked at his master with a gaze full of…such _admiration_.

But what Basta didn't know was that Capricorn hated him. Capricorn believed that such attachments made a man vulnerable and weak. Not to mention that Basta was stupid. The man's only goal in life was to obey Capricorn's demands, leaving him oblivious to aspects of the outside world. Not to mention his constant fear of curses and what not. Yet oblivion made him a good henchman.

"I want you to gather a group of men and burn down Sheila's house. And his farm, too. But I want you to make sure that he and his daughter perish in the fire, too. I want all of this done tonight."

"Shall I give him a special message beforehand, sir?" Basta asked. They both knew what message he was talking about. However, Capricorn just shook his head.

"No. He doesn't need a warning. He can't expect to disrespect me and get away with it, now can he?"

"No, my lord," Basta said.

"Yes, well, off with you. I have more important business to deal with now."

And with that the man turned on his heels and walked out, his leather boots clicking loudly on the tile floor.

_Midnight_.

Basta sat perched on a fallen branch with Cockerell beside him. "Come on, then, Basta. How much longer do we have to wait in this cursed dark? You should have just forced him here, like I said!"

"Shut your trap, Cockerell," Basta whispered back. "He'll be here sooner or later. We'll wait all night if we have to because Capricorn always gets what he wants." Cockerell snorted silently.

"You really like Capricorn, don't cha, Basta? Eh? And how do you…_display_ such affection? By shoving his cock down your throat, that's how!" The idiot cackled like a bird.

Basta was about to lash out at the stupid man, but footsteps were heard. Sheila was home. Basta listened and when he was sure that the man had retired into his house he yelled out, "Positions, men!"

Various black-clad men jumped out from behind the trees and bushes and began to station themselves in front of windows and doors, blocking all exits, while others began to douse the house in acrid smelling spirits. He saw the girl, Capricorn's fancy, peek out of her window, alarmed. A moment later her father came to the window, looking upset.

"What's going on?" he yelled down at the rowdy men.

"This!" Basta said and simultaneously all of the men struck matches and threw it at the house. The girl screamed. "Capricorn is displeased with you," Basta yelled up to the man, "You will pay for your defiance with your life and your daughter's!"

Sheila let out an anguished yell as he watched his house being engulfed in flames. He tried to jump out of the window but one of the men was holding it shut, sword in hand. Then the man tried the back door, but that too was being barred.

Sheila and his daughter were being burnt alive.

Meanwhile, Basta watched, fascinated as the house roared and crackled with life. He admired the flames as they danced and gyrated on the rooftops, as precise as ladies. Suddenly Cockerell was beside him again.

"That was fun!" he said, panting. "Much better than running around a house wearing a devil's mask, tell you that."

Basta suddenly remembered Cockerell's racy remark and turned on the man, eyes narrow with dislike. "You'd better watch your mouth," he hissed.

"Oh yeah? Why's that? Wait, I know, it's because you have a stinkin', uncontrollable temper, am I right?" Cockerell's eyes sparkled a mischievous shade of red in the firelight. Basta was not fazed.

"Watch it…" he growled.

"Oh, but everyone knows it's true. You and Capricorn have a special bond, a special…er…_sexual _bond, if I may. That's why you're his favorite. I mean who wouldn't like a man who willingly-"

But that was as far as he got, for Basta, enraged, lunged at the unsuspecting man. The two tumbled dangerously close to the burning house. The other men came towards them as if to break apart the fighting men, but stopped themselves. This was all too entertaining.

Meanwhile Cockerell had gained the upper hand. Enraged, he sent a punch Basta's way. It made a satisfying "pop" when it made contact with the man's face. Basta reeled, disoriented, drawing his knife.

Then he made the most fatal mistake in his life.

Half-crazed by the extreme heat coming from the burning house and the wound inflicted by Cockerell, Basta lunged.

But Cockerell dodged him at the last minute.

And Basta was sent pummeling into the flames.

For a minute there was an odd silence as Cockerell realized what he had done. The breaking dawn was silent, the roaring fire seemed strangely muted, and the screams of the burning victims had long since faded away.

"Shit," one of the men muttered.

Silence. And then;

"_**Aaaaagh**_!"

Basta burst out of a ring of flames, both arms purely ablaze.

"Help me!" he screamed in agony.

But the men were cowards. They played with fire from a distance and boasted of horrendous murders but fled behind their master's back when confronted by someone braver than them. None of them made a move to help the burning man.

Basta, in the meantime, was in a terrible state of panic. Terrified, he ripped his burning jacket from his body, only to have the flames leap onto his bare arms. For a moment Basta's life flashed before his eyes. _This was how he was going to die; in excruciating pain while the others stood around and watched._ _In his heart he always knew it would be like this, nobody would come to his aid at the time of his death. He brought this on himself._

And for a moment the thought hurt more than his burning flesh.

_No_, a little voice at the back of his head said, _Capricorn will be displeased if you die. Very displeased._

And with that thought Basta pulled himself up, dragging his arms across the ground in such a way that the fire, though slowly, diminished itself.

"Fuck!" one of the men said, snapping out of his daze when the burning balcony of the house came crashing down before them. "We must go!"

Cockerell, yielding to his guilty conscience, grabbed Basta around the waist and pulled him along through the thicket, away from the collapsing house. One of the men had not been so lucky and was crushed under the burning structure, but Cockerell had no time to go back and help him; he must get Basta back to the fortress. Sweating, he hoisted him up onto the nearest horse and after hoisting himself up behind him he snapped the reigns and galloped away at full pace, Basta swaying against his chest like a ragdoll made of thin, cheap fabric

Basta's .

Basta swayed in and out of consciousness. He felt the bouncing of the frantic horse as it crashed through the bushes. Where were the other men? He looked down at his arms and moaned. They were burned, horrendously mangled and twisted. Basta inhaled the pungent odor of flesh burning and did a small double take when he realized that it was coming from him. Fire. Fire had done this to him. Fire. How was fire so powerful? He could still feel the flames on his flesh, hear their whispering, cruelly laughing at his fear. But it wasn't this incident that fueled fear of fire, it was the idea that it represented. When he had looked out through the smoke while being engulfed by flames he had expected to see the men running to his rescue or at least getting help .But no. They had just stood there, staring and watching. Watching and staring. Fire was now a constant reminder that no one, _no one_, would stand by him during his death. He shuddered, trailing his fingers along his torn arms. Fire was now his enemy.


	3. The Nights Brianna Spent with Adonis

There was a mound of clothes accumulating under the window. They were all crumbled and some were torn. The young guard watched as another forlorn dress landed on the pile.

"Are you quite all right, my lady? Do you need some help?"

"No I don't! And yes, I'm fine!" For a second, Violante's mousy head popped up above the dresser then bobbed out of view as a pair of stockings landed on the pile. Slightly panting, she stood up and firmly placed her hands on the wooden dresser. "Why are you still standing around, then?" she asked, glaring at him with those cold eyes of hers, "Go on, get out! And mind you no one disturbs me before the night is out!"

The lanky guard nodded and, with a murmured "Good night!" left the room smiling.

Violante sighed and fell to her knees. Her sniffling began to echo through out the room as she picked up a red scarf and examined it. She and Brianna used to use scarves like these to tie back their dresses as to not look fat (which they were not) but had always ended up running into the nearest room to take them off. But now Brianna was with someone else…

The scarf landed on the pile.

Violante sobbing loudly, packed all of the clothes in a heavy trunk laden with silver. Angrily, she slammed down the lid and scribbled a quick note. "_Brianna: To you and your new husband. I wish you much happiness and delight and all of that other stuff. Violante_." She stepped back and admired her work. Seeing it fit, she tried to lift the trunk, but as soon as she put her fingers under the trunk to drag it into the next hall she was taken by uncontrollable weeping again and sat down on the bare floor."Why do I even bother?" she murmured to herself, angrily wiping the tears away. "Why do I even care that she rather spend her nights with him than with me! Why do I even care? Why does anyone care?" She picked up an earthenware jar of perfume and flung it at the closed trunk. Immediately the clasps sprang open and the precious clothing was drenched in a foul smelling perfume. Breathing shakily, she leaned against the wall. She would be alone tonight. No one would sing to her tonight. No one would tell stories or exchange jokes. No one would whisper feminine conversations in her ear in the quite of the night. Tonight she would be alone, just like when she was a young girl trying to understand the cruel ways of life.

XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXo

"Okay, okay, guess this one." Cosimo, laughing, pinched his nose and strutted around the room like a peacock, attempting to sing while holding laughter. Brianna laughed and clapped her hands. "A dying peacock?" she guessed. Cosimo flashed a grin at her that made her heart beat faster. "No, I was actually going for something along the lines of, oh, I don't know, _the Piper_?" He plopped down on the bed besides her and smiled. "Your turn."

"Okay." Brianna got up and, pinching up her skirts, picked a hairpin out of her hair, letting loose a fountain of shimmering red hair. She pointed the pin threateningly in his direction. "If we don't end this silly game I will cut you into thin pieces with my knife! Raaaaah!" With much grace she sprang at him, knocking him over. Cosimo assumed a fearful expression that made her laugh. "Oh no, not Basta! Let me destroy you with _myyyyyyy_…sword! Yaaaaaaaa!" He grabbed a model sword from the window ledge and chased after the girl, making exagerated fencing motions. Brianna jumped of the bed and ran screaming through the room. The two continued to chase each other, laughing and screaming, until Cosimo faked death and they both collapsed on the huge bed, laughing.

"Brianna?" he asked, watching her pin her hair up with as much grace as an angel.

"Hmmm?" she smiled lazily at him.

"Will you sing for me?"

Her green eyes twinkled with youthful merriment in the flickering candlelight. When she smiled with thin pink lips her whole face lit up and even the freckles around her nose played into the whole affect. Unabashedly he watched as her hair whipped around her shoulders and occasionally fell onto the gentile slope of her rising and falling chest. Something in his in his breast beat extra hard for the girl, more than for his own wife, and she knew it. Suddenly her face fell and her brow wrinkled.

"I'll sing to me if you promise me one thing."

"Hmmmmmmm, what's that, now?"

"Promise me that you love your wife."

Cosimo sighed and put his hands under his head. His eyes became lost in the pattern of the painted ceiling but finally, with a smile, he said, "I love my wife."

"No, I'm serious!" Brianna sat up and looked down at him with a hot fury that she was rumored to have gotten from her mother. She hit him to get his attention. "Cosimo, I am serious. Violante is my mistress and I….I don't want to just abandon her…."

"But you already have. For me," he whispered without looking at her and then, seeing that he had hit a sore mark he cradled her lost face in his angelic hands. "I promise you, Brianna, that I do love my wife. But there are many kinds of love. For example, I do not love her as I love you. But I love her all the same. Is that what you want?" She nodded. "Yes. Good. As long as you're happy. Now will you sing for me?" She nodded again. Content, Cosimo rested his head upon his pillows again and closed his eyes, letting her voice carry him far away.

Later, she did not know how long she had singing; Cosimo fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Glancing worriedly at the shut door, she inched herself closer and closer to the sleeping man so that she could feel the warmth of his body on hers. She matched her breathing to the rise and fall of his belly as she ran her hand along his face; running her fingers through the black hair, tracing the strong jaw. What was this feeling that lived stirred deep in her stomach when she touched him, why did her heart beat faster when he touched her? Was it love? What _is_ love? Sighing, she contented herself with laying her hand on his stomach. After what her father did to her was she allowed to love? She could only be loyal to one man; after all she only had one heart! Why should she give it to a man who was never there; a man who bought her petty gifts as an excuse for his absences. No. She just couldn't do it. No matter what her mother said, she would not love Dustfinger. She had tried for many years but each time he walked away, not even looking back at the little girl that he was leaving behind.

Yes, in the end she could only give her heart to one man and it would not be Dustfinger. It would be Cosimo. _Yes,_ she thought to herself, watching the sleeping man, _I will give my heart_ _to him and him only. I will forget my father like he has forgotten me. I'm not a little girl anymore_.

And suddenly he was up and on her lips, engulfing her with his sweet confusion. Brianna, shocked, gave a muffled gasp and fell back. He pulled away. "Sorry," Cosimo breathed. His lips were wet and his eyes were shining, "But I heard you thinking of me." They held eyes for one more second before coming together again, kissing each other's lips like they'd never loved before. She pushed him away.

"Wha-?" Brianna shook her head. "What do you mean?"

"By what?" he challenged her. When she didn't answer he took her hand in his and kissed it slowly. "That I love you? That I heard you thinking of me? Certain things are meant to be and you can always tell by the strange and awesome signs." He reached up and kissed her neck, making her shiver. "I want you, Brianna," he whispered in her ear, "Please, let's just forget everything and be lovers, even if just for one night."

_Lovers. _The word echoed back in forth in her mind as he kissed her forehead down her nose, and finally her lips. _I will give my heart to him and him only. I will forget my father like he has forgotten me. _ She gasped when he embraced her like she had never been embraced before.

_I'm not a little girl anymore._

That morning Brianna arrived late to breakfast. Violante tried not to look at her with contempt but she knew that her anger was seeping through her eyes by the way that Brianna avoided her heated gaze. "Sleep well last night?" she asked casually, picking at her food with her fork. Brianna just nodded her head distractedly and looked out the window. Violante gave a critical _hmmph_, and watched Brianna over the rim of her tea cup. That morning Cosimo had dressed her. He had showered her in a thousand golden kisses, whispering words of love as sweet as honey, caressing her and touching her hair over and over again. Bu Violante didn't know that.

Brianna looked out the window. There were so many things that she wanted to think about. She didn't want to think of Violante. She wanted to think of Cosimo and the wndeful things that they did together last night, but images of her father kept appearing in her head. Her father, making golden flowers for her in the early hours of the morning, her father laughing at her repetitive jokes like they were the funniest that he'd ever heard. Her father kissing the top of her head and promising to "be back before you know it." Little girl. She was not a little girl anymore. But sometimes she wished she still was.


	4. When Dustfinger Got is Face SLASHED!

_**Please read: Okay, I'll make this qui-HEY, DON'T SCROLL DOWN! I'M WATCHING YOU. Anyway I just found out from a very good friend of mine that this is not at all how the scene happened. I went back and reread Inkspell myself and found out that what I wrote is VERY different from what Cornelia Funke hinted the scene to be. I actually like my version, though…so what I'll do is rewrite this with the correct events and post that as When Dustfinger Got His Scars Part Two. Okay? Good. Go on; scroll down, shoo, shoo.**_

When Dustfinger Got His Scars

Basta sat perched on a well in Roxane's farm. His knife gleamed blindingly in the sun as he sharpened it against the slick stones. It really was a beautiful day, although the sun shone so bright that the man had to unbutton his shirt, exposing a suntanned chest covered by wisps of black curly hair here and there. Roxane's home sat smuggled between lush forests and vast thickets. Cute flowers sprouted merrily in her homemade garden that surrounded her pathetic cottage. But the woman herself was anything but pathetic.

Basta sighed in content. Today, he was sure; he would get what he wanted once and for all.

It wasn't long before Basta heard the sound of a woman's voice, getting closer and closer. She was singing a smooth, luscious melody that made his heart beat faster. He stood up as she rounded the corner.

"Basta!" She exclaimed, dropping the wicker basket that she had been carrying.

"Hello, Roxane. Miss me?" he purred seductively.

The woman seemed to have relaxed just a bit. She was use to his games. She bent down to gather her belongings, corkscrews of her thick black hair escaping her bun and bouncing in the sunlight. "I thought I told you to stay away from me…forever." She said, avoiding his eyes.

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that. You're much to pretty." Basta suddenly noticed the young girl staring out of the cottage window at him. She must have been Roxane's daughter, she certainly was pretty enough. Basta winked at her.

Roxanne looked up at him, scandalized. "There is more to me than just beauty, Basta."

"I know," Basta said, jumping of off the well and approaching her like a cat stalking its prey. She flinched, glowering, when he ran his hand down the nape of her neck. There was something so…arousing in the way that she looked at him, eyes narrowed with hate. "Yes, there's more to you than beauty, madam. There's also all of this."

Roxanne jumped when he laid his hand on her breasts and smacked him hard in the face. Before he could respond he heard a voice coming from behind the house.

"Roxanne?"

It was unmistakably that pathetic fire-eater's voice; Dustfinger.

Basta jumped and positioned himself behind a tree bearing strange fruits. "If you tell him I am here I will kill your daughter," Basta mouthed to Roxanne, running his knife against his own throat and pointing at the wide-eyed girl in the window.

As much as Roxanne hated it she had no choice but to accept for the sake of her daughter. Basta smiled, pleased, and hid behind the tree once more just as Dustfinger rounded the corner.

"Roxanne!" Dustfinger beamed upon seeing her. She was just too beautiful, standing there surrounded by sweet smelling plants and slanting sunlight. The wind blew playfully, blowing soft curls of her hair against her cheek. But why did she look so worried?

"Roxanne, why didn't you answer when I called you?" he asked, giving her a swift embrace.

"I didn't hear you." She murmured, giving him a strange look. Her eyes briefly flickered to the surrounding trees.

"Ah, yes, well, I brought you a little something." He said, ignoring her signal. Basta leaned forward, knife in hand, listening. Listening and watching.

Dustfinger brought his hand to his pocket, curling his fist as if holding something. He smiled and with a flourish swept back his hands, making a raging fire dance at his feet. He whispered something and the bright flames arranged themselves in the shape of a heart. He chuckled.

"Yes, Roxanne. I've brought you my heart and therefore, all of my love."

He pulled her into a warm embrace and kissed her lips. For a minute Roxanne was so overpowered by such a display of affection that she forgot all about Basta, hiding in the trees. But it was too late.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" Basta growled, stepping out from behind the trees.

Dustfinger jumped and turned around, startled. The fire at his feet extinguished.

"Roxanne, love, do you really want his heart? It's a pathetic, cowardly thing that extinguishes at the sight of danger." Basta unsheathed his knife once more and waved it at Dustfinger. "I told you to stay away from her."

"I'm not scared of you, Basta." Dustfinger whispered his throat raw.

"You don't know what I can do, yet. Would you like me to show you?"

Dustfinger try to back away, but before he could move, Basta had him by the neck, the flat edge of his blade on the man's pale throat.

Roxanne screamed, but Dustfinger had an idea.

"Roxanne, get in the house!" He yelled to the frightened woman. He focused his gaze behind Basta's shoulders, "Oh my goodness! It's the White Women, they've come to get someone!"

Basta spun around with a scream. Dustfinger saw his chance and wriggled out of the man's iron grasp. Dustfinger tried to summon his protector, fire, but with a roar of rage Basta sprang at him, embarrassed to have his pride wounded in front of Roxanne.

"Like to make yourself out to be clever, do you?" He yelled in Dustfinger's face. Dustfinger felt himself turn faint with dizziness as the man squeezed his fragile throat.

"Where has the bitch kissed you, dirtyfingers? Here?" Basta ran his knife through Dustfinger's cheek. The wound immediately began to leak blood. "Here?" this time Basta ran the knife from Dustfinger's temple all the way to his nose. The desperate fire-eater cried out in pain; a shrill, abused cry. "Or here?" Basta's knife sliced the man's skin.

Basta stepped back to admire his work. "That's to please the girl's even better in the future," he whispered to him, but suddenly was pulled back by Roxanne. Basta may have been astoundingly handsome but he was also astoundingly narrow around the shoulders.

"Bastard!" Roxanne yelled at him, cradling Dustfinger protectively. "You know why I hate you? Because you're nothing but a mindless bastard who's first impulse is to kill. You call a Dustfinger a coward, but what are you? Hiding behind your master's back doesn't make you a brave man Basta! You're nothing but a coward with a swagger. That is why no one loves you! I don't love you, Capricorn doesn't love you, and even your own family doesn't love you!"

Basta took a double take. How did she know? Memories of an abusive father, an ill-tempered dying mother, and bullies at his school came flooding back to him. "You witch!" he spat, raising his knife once more. But something stopped him. Roxanne, Roxanne holding the bleeding fire-eater in her arms, the two lovers shielded by a ring of fire whispered too life by Dustfinger. For a minute Basta's black heart skipped a beat and his throat felt raw. This picture of love was something that he always wanted. This perfect portrait of two lovers wrapped in each other's arms was something he once imagined he would star in. This perfect picture was something that his cold heart could not have and he hated himself for it.

So with a roar Basta turned and ran. He ran and ran all the way through the Wayless Woods, feeling betrayed, hurt, and hated, as he had felt so many times in his corrupted life.


	5. Why Basta Chews Peppermint Part One

**Author's note: I don't know what the Hell's going on with the dialogue at the bottom. Me going crazy, I guess. Rated T for language.**

He'd always considered himself a decent looking man. Leaning back against the wall, arms folded, sharp eyes searching, leather boots tapping, he could only imagine that he was the picture of nonchalant yet sexy innocence.

Oh, but Basta was anything but _innocent_.

They said he was crazy for loving her, and she crazy for refusing him. _Hmph_. Those lily-livered bastards. What did they didn't know? Russia was a beautiful woman, intelligent, thick in the nicer parts, and quite rich, too.

Smiling, Basta ran his hand through his ink black hair. A petite woman and her three lively children waddled past him like a group of clucking ducks, two men in the blacksmiths' attire debated loudly over the merits of a certain sword, and a man in the Strolling Players' costume ran past him. With a care-free expression on his face, Basta stuck out his foot and the man went sprawling.

"Hey watch it!" the man cursed, but then he looked up.

"If I were you, I'd think twice about talking like that…to me." Basta growled, using the voice reserved for subdued hostages and dying enemies. The Strolling Player took one look at the man with the Capricorn's emblem embroidered on his chest and quickly stumbled away, muttering a quick yet unheard apology.

Basta looked after the man stumbling away, smirking. Strolling Players were _so_ pathetic.

Suddenly he heard the sound of wooden doors being opened.

He turned around and there on the stairs of the Adderhead's castle stood the object of his affection. Russia. The woman was tall, taller than all of the maidens surrounding her, and blessed with a pleasurable amount of flesh on her bones which some might call fat but he called sexy. She had curling blond hair that snaked around her shoulders and shimmered like a fountain gold which complemented her crazy light green eyes. Basta sauntered up to her, hands in his pockets, with a crazy seductive grin on his lips.

"Hello, _Russia_…" he purred, eyeing her large, large bosom with confidence

The women stopped talking and looked and him in fear mixed with curiosity. Every one knew Basta. Russia made a point of not looking at him, preoccupied as she was with toying with the tassel on her dress and batting her eyelids at her friends. Finally she looked up at him.

"Hello, Basta."

"Long time, no see."

"All the better for me."

Basta grinned at her and cocked his head, pleased with this game. "Don't you like what you see?"

"What's there to see?"

"The fact that you've got a treasure box and I've got a key."

"Yes, but is it the right key?"

"I think it's about time that we've found out. Besides, whether or not it's the right key doesn't matter. What matters is whether or not it will fit. If not, we can wiggle it around a little and perhaps the lock will just spring o-"

"Well, girls, don't you think it's about time that we're on our way?"Asked Jayce, a sweet-lipped maiden almost and dark as the Black Prince. She had been on Basta's pay for the past three months to sweet talk Russia into getting into bed with him. He hoped that all of her feminine persuasion and romantic wit was enough to score him some points. After all, it was not only money that he had paid her with.

The entourage of finely dressed ladies hesitantly began to walk the other way, murmuring, throwing glances behind them. Basta caught Jayce's eyes and winked. She winked back. Finally, it was just the two of them alone.

"Shall we walk?" he asked, polite enough.

"I don't see the harm in it." She replied, her rouge lips tracing a grin.

And so they began to walk the streets of Argenta in silence. It was noted that Russia kept trying to steer them away from well populated lanes and centers of vast social connections; but rather she preferred to trudge the dark alleys away from human eyes. In truth, she did not care to be seen with the dirty man besides her because it would arouse too much suspicion. It would spark questions and gossip, gossip of which she did not care for.

_Did you know that Russia, the once respectful and powerful maid of the Adderhead, is now sharing her bed with Basta, the disgusting weak henchman of Capricorn?_

No, truly she did not care for this type of talk at all and it was because of this that together they trudged through dark alleys, away from prying eyes. But, she had to admit, there was something about this man that struck her fancy; a sort of dark seductiveness and dangerous attention that enraptured her like a newly presented challenge.

This she was pondering when she was woken out of her reverie to find Basta snaking his arm around her waist, pulling her in to an uncomfortable embrace. She slapped him.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded with an uncharacteristically high squeal.

"What does it look like?" he spat back, wiping blood from his lip.

"It looks like you're trying to get yourself into trouble with the Adderhead!"

"Trouble?" Basta pulled back, a mock pout on his face and then he smiled a wide smile like the Chester cat. "I'll take my chances."

He lunged at her and firmly wrapped his strong arms around her waist. She screamed, but the sound was caught in her throat as he kissed her, forcing his slimy tongue on her own and making sounds in his throat that at once excited her and disgusted her. She wanted to pull back, to pull on his hair, kick him, and scream, but instead she found herself paralyzed by the sting of this hornet, wanting nothing more than to let the moment last.

Finally he pulled back, his arms still entwined around her waist. "_Electric_…" he whispered in her ear.

"I-it was nice…" she admitted, struggling against his grasp, but he would not let go.

He inhaled deeply; eyes closed, and then looked right at her. "You know, _Russia_, I am capable of showing you _sooo_ much more. I can show you something that will render you blind and open your eyes, I can take you somewhere sweeter than honey and darker than night, I can do things to you that will make you gasp and moan and hold on to me for dear life, things that will make you want to cry out and laugh, Russia, I can make you feel…_otherworldly_."

He tried to rush in to kiss her again, but she threw her arms in front of her face and deflected the sudden motion.

"What's wrong with you?" he screamed in her face, getting frustrated at the frequent intervals of this game.

"What's wrong?" she screamed at him, "What's wrong?" How do you explain to someone whose only goal in life is to receive unfair pleasure at the sake of others that you can't just go claiming that you love a woman just because of her physical (and monetary) value? "What's _wrong_? I'll tell you what's wrong, Basta! You're stupid! You're stupid and you're a coward; that's right coward! You claim to be so great, but all you ever do is hide behind your master's back and only come out when you think the coast is clear. People only pretend to like only because they're scared of you're knife but really everybody hates you! You have no family and you have no friends, you're a low-life sadistic chump and-" here she made a little noise in her throat and sort of smiled "-your breath stinks."

Basta stood there, paralyzed and pissed. Yeah, he'd been called a coward, a bastard, and a low-life before; that he could stand. But…his breath stank? That was new. Confused, he raised a hand to his mouth, blew on it, and then sniffed. He smelled nothing out of the ordinary but…if she smelled something then everybody else did, too. Suddenly he felt angry. Why had nobody ever told him that before? How long had he gone with stinking breath?

Russia began to inch farther and farther away. She saw that she had hit a mark; a personal one at that, but Basta just stood there, oblivious to the whole world and deep in thought. She took this as a chance to leave and scuttled away.

But Basta just stood there, back against the wall. His breath stank? Damn. What else had gone unnoticed for so long.

_Sophisticated me (reading over my shoulder): Damn. You used the name _Russia_ for one of your characters. Damn. You're so weird._

_Real me (typing): Shut up!_

_Sophisticated me (laughing): I mean you should have named her Africa or Brisbane for God's sake!_

_Real me: Ooh, Brisbane….that's not a bad name for a hot male character that I am soon to invent. _

_S.M.: (sighs) Stupid, I was just joking. Get your head out of the clouds. Go get a life._

_R.M.: You know, you don't even exist. Just…tell the readers to look out for part two of this story and get on with it._

_S.M. (winking at reader): To look out for part two of this story and get on with it (disappears, laughing.)_

_RM : Mother fu-_

_(Basta randomly strolls out of my closet)_

_Basta: You know, the girl I tried to kiss actually wasn't named Russia. That's not even an Inkheart-y name. _

_RM: SHUT UP YOU LOW-LIFE COWARD! I CAN'T BREATH WHEN YOUR STINKY BREATH CLOUDS UP MY WORK SPACE._

_Basta (shrugs): Whatever. Can you write a yaoi with me and Vincent? Or Cockerell?_

_RM: No! Maybe. Now go get ready for part two and, erm, brush your teeth will you?_


	6. Peppermint Part Two

Peppermint, Part Two

That night Basta stood above the bed of a pretty woman. Her blonde hair fanned out on the pillow like spilt gold and her hands were folded neatly under her bold chest. Her skin looked fairer than ever in the silvery moonlight. Any other night he would have used this time to let himself enjoy and become aroused by the silvery continuity of her light breathing.

But not night, for tonight she would be dead

Never again would be gaze upon her figure so lustfully, never again would he spend lonely nights thinking about her and all of the wealth that she had to offer, never again would she tell him that he had smelly breath.

Silent as the shadows that caressed his pale body, he inched closer and closer until he was forced to lean over the edge of the mattress. He extended a ghostly hand and carefully, almost lovingly wrapped a thick cord around her slender neck. Without giving himself time to think twice he dug his fingernails into his palms and began to pull the string tighter and tighter around her throat with so much determination that, with eyes squeezed shut, he began to grind his teeth in the most violent way. Immediately she woke up. Poor woman; her eyes were bulging out of her bloated face as she struggled to pry off the sinking rope that threatened to cut clean through her neck. Wild, panicking, she made a pleading sign with her hands and stared up at him with fit-to-burst puppy dog eyes. Basta could only laugh at the scene below him; a woman, angelically holding her hands up to him in an act of submission and repent while wagging a devilishly blue tongue at the angel of death. He laughed.

"Who's the coward now, bitch?"

With an unexpected burst of energy born from a mysterious source of feminine will, she attempted o heave to the laughing Basta off of her, but it was too late. The rope sank low, lower than before, and with a dying gasp she fell lifeless onto her pillows, as if she were simply going back to sleep; a long, long sleep from which she would never wake up.

Basta stood back and admired his work. No one would ever suspect him and if so, how would they prove it? She could have just died in her sleep. The marks on her neck were already fading. Thoroughly satisfied, Basta moved to the end of the bed an unabashedly raised the hem of her dress but was immediately disgusted by what he saw. _Well, _he thought, dropping the material back over her legs, _at least I'm not missing out on anything in _that _department. _Chuckling, he pocketed his leather gloves and was about to exit trough the window when he saw a satchel lying open on her shelf. Throwing a glance at the dead corpse, he moved to the elaborately decorated shelf and quickly dug his hand through the sac. Gold and silver, a lot of it, trickled through his fingers like sand. This he pocketed along with several other items of interest but suddenly a peculiar smell caught is attention. He rummaged around until he found the source of the tingling aroma. Surprised, he reached into a glass vase and brought the prickly stuff to his nose, sniffing.

Leaves.

He sniffed again, a psychotic smile starting to spread across his lips.

_Peppermint_, he thought to himself, popping some in his mouth. _I've always liked the smell of peppermint._

And with that he climbed out of the window and disappeared into the night like a melting shadow, leaving nothing but the faint scent of peppermint in the air.


	7. When Dustfinger Met Resa

When Dustfinger met Resa

_Silver._

Multiple shades of silver outlined her vision. The trees had sprouted silver branches while the flowers swayed and danced to a silver song. She shook her head, hoping to clear it all away but the movement had the effect of a salt-shaker; sprinkling more dust onto the silver outlining of things.

_No._

No. But here came the red. Oh, the cursed red! It was like a crimson black sheen, oozing its way down into her thoughts, coating, clutching, and caressing her thoughts with its slow, bloated hands and sick smile.

_No!_ No! _No!_ No! _No!_ No! _No!_ No! _No!_

Resa covered her ears with both hands and shook her head hard so hard that the end of her hair swished back and forth like whips that stung her cheeks. _Scream_. That would be the most sensible to do. _Scream and get somebody's attention, _

But wait. She couldn't do that.

About a foot away from her lay the snake, the cursed demon of hell, with its tail end still wriggling and slapping the ground with starving fury and its small, bloody stomach stomped open. Resa kicked at it one more time as she gasped, clutching her throat. But no matter how hard she tried to fight it, she was quickly loosing her ability to breathe and if she didn't get help soon she wouldn't be able to hold on any longer. The only witness to her struggling was the silent sun with its pounding rays that gripped her body with careless obsession.

Resa began to cry. Silent, furious calls of horror and guilt echoed through her poisoned body_. I shouldn't have done this_, she cried to herself. _I shouldn't have runaway. How will I find my family now? Mo. Meggie…..I'm so sorry._

That was it. She let go and fell into the crimson darkness once again.

_Later._

Dustfinger stood nervously in the entrance of a shallow cave. Hands in pockets, he rocked back and forth on his heels, whistling. Occasionally he would glance back at the figure tossing and turning behind him and begin to rock faster, back and forth, on his tired heels. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and cursed. _Oh, Dustfinger! Give it up you soft-hearted fool! _He cursed himself, but all the same he turned around and adjusted her measly blanket and checked her forehead for the millionth time. The poor woman was still running a fever, but whenever he removed the blanket she started shivering so badly that he was quick to throw it back on. At a loss, he sat back on his heels and stared at her. She really was a lovely woman. She was a bit short, true, but for him she possessed a type of earthly beauty, what with the graceful curve of her hips, the soothing rise and fall of her chest, and especially her coral pink lips. Unsure of himself, he reached out his hands and lightly pressed his pointer finger and his middle finger on her upper and lower lip. She moaned and turned away. Immediately a wave of guilt washed over him like a cold wave. _What are you __**doing**__?_ He asked himself angrily. _You already have a wife at home. _

_Yes, but will you ever see her again?_

Dustfinger shook his head to rid himself of these nagging thoughts when suddenly he saw the woman bolt up. She began to thrash and writhe about in a manner of a dying snake in a hurricane of golden hair and sweaty skin. Slightly panicked, Dustfinger threw himself on the ill woman and captured her in a confused embrace before she could do any harm to herself.

"Whoa, there!" he whispered in her ear as she trembled under his touch. "I won't hurt you! Shhhh. Relax, now."

After a while she grew still and pulled away. Timidly, she flashed him a shy smile that sent his heart soaring and nodded in his direction.

"I-I'm Dustfinger." He smiled and extended a slightly trembling hand. "What's your name?"

For a minute the woman frowned and shook her head pointing to her throat. Dustfinger furrowed his brow and watched her worriedly. "W-what's wrong?" he asked, slightly offended. Geez, did she not want to talk to him? Had his reputation as a scum, a coward, gone so far as to reach her ears? However, she must have read his thoughts because she reached over and clutched his arm assuringly and pointed at her lips, shaking her head. He furrowed his brow. And then,

"Oh, wait a minute! You're mute, aren't you?"

The woman smiled and sat back, satisfied. Dustfinger's mind raced. Mute….hair like spun gold…..blue eyes.

"Wait, you're Capricorn's maid, aren't you? Resa, that's your name. I've heard about you."

She looked quizzically at him and then commenced in writing unintelligible words in the dust. He grabbed her arm. "Oh, sorry…but I can't read."

For a minute their eyes met and a shiver went down both of their spines. She took his hand in hers and, as he lost himself in her big, blue eyes, he felt a quivering in his stomach similar to the one that he had felt when he first spoke to Roxanne.

_I know you, too_. She mouthed to him. _I'm from your world. You were the famous Fire juggler._

"Yeah…" he said, but he was still lost, faraway as he was in the ocean of confusion and labyrinth of love.

He was surprised when she pulled away, leaving his hand feeling icy and hot at the same time. She sighed wearily and put a hand to her forehead.

"Oh, er, yes, well, you might want to get some rest now. I put some medicine on your ankle along with a pretty good bandage. So, I think you'll be okay."

She nodded and smiled at him. _Thank you_, she mouthed, and fell back to sleep.

Many days passed by. Dustfinger stayed with Resa in the well-hidden cave, slowly but surely nurturing her back to health. They spent many hours having silent conversations while shaking sparkling dew from their hair in the morning and often spent their nights by the fireside, staring into the blazing light and occasionally sharing a fearful smile over the glowing yellow blaze. Thus, a friendship was formed, growing stronger and stronger until one day, something really, really bad happened (excuse me for the lack of awesome-suspense-line skills.)

It was another one of those mornings. Frostier than usual, this time they had to shake thin layers of ice from their clothing numerous times.

"P-p-p-pretty c-cold, isn't, Resa?" Dustfinger commented through chattering teeth. He heard Resa laugh. He sighed. "Too bad we don't have someone who can summon fire with us. Man oh man, how I wish I could just rub my hands together like so," he rubbed his hands together, "mutter a few words," he muttered a few words, "and have fire spring from my hand like magic." A small glowing fire sprung from his hands like magic. He feigned a look of surprise that made Resa laugh. "'Oh my goodness! Who knew I could do that?" He loved it when she laughed; the sound of her laughter warmed his heart and melted his homesickness like icicles. It was the only way that one could hear her actual voice and he had spent many nights dreaming about what the rest of it would sound like. What about when she wept? When she sung? When she screamed? When she joked?

_Dustfinger?_

She tapped his shoulder. He looked at her and she circled a finger around her ring finger.

"Am I married? No." He didn't know why he had said that. He was married…in another world. Did that still count? "Are you…..wait don't tell me." He didn't want to know.

For a minute she looked at him so forlornly that he knew that she felt guilty about something.

"What do you want from me, Resa? A kiss?"

She didn't say anything-or, rather do anything, but look away awkwardly. However, she showed no sign of disapproval when he leaned over and put his hand over her cheek.

"You want me to kiss you, Resa?"

Yes and no yes and no yes and no. That's what he read on her forehead. Yes, she wanted nothing better than for him to kiss her. No, she would never forgiver herself-or him. But, hell, you only live once.

He leaned in with a screaming heart and kissed her, softly at first because he was afraid to break the fragility of her soft lips. But his confidence grew (among other things) and soon they were kissing like long-lost lovers who had found each other at last. He pulled away, woozy with desire. "I love you. I want you. Just say yes and I'll never leave you."

"Oh, don't be so sure of that, Dirtyfingers."

Dustfinger spun around. "Basta?"

There stood his enemy, standing impressively in the entrance of the cave flanked by Cockerell, Flatnose, and a few other black-clad men.

"And what are you doing with poor Resa? Not _kissing_ her, I hope." Cockerell turned and made gagging motions to the men standing around him who in turn laughed like hyenas. Basta stepped forward and reached for Resa, but Dustfinger barred his way. "Don't you dare touch her!" he screamed in his face. "She's hurt."

"I can do what I goddamn well want to do!" Basta screamed back. "Hold him."

Resa screamed. Dustfinger tried to jump out of the way but three men were upon him in less than a second and had seized him by his hair, neck, and shoulders.

"Leave her alone, please!" But Basta just ignored him.

"Well, well, well, little Miss Resa, I would have never know you'd had it in you to go and escape like that. We miss you there. Capricorn can't wait to have you back; he wants to give you a little something, just to ensure that you'll never try to runaway again."

Dustfinger could only marvel at the will of this woman as she stared back into Basta's cold eyes with pure hatred as hot as fire.

"But why do you look at me like that, I wonder?" Basta said as he her hauled her up onto her injured heel. She winced. "Is it because I took to long to do this?" He leaned in and kissed her, not at all in the way that Dustfinger had. He could see her flailing and struggling for breath all while the men around her laughed as if it were some kind of big joke. Dustfinger didn't. Enraged, he pulled free of Flatnose's hands and lunged at Basta. The two men grappled with each other until Basta, panting, held Dustfinger pinned to the wall with a knife pressed against his lips.

"Think you're clever, do you? Think you're so brave trying to save your little girlfriend, huh? Bullshit! I'll show you a true man! You stole Roxane from me already, but I sure in the hell won't let you take this one. Come on boys," he signaled to the other men. "Let's have some fun."

The next few minutes were the most painful for the two lovers' lives. Resa could only watch in silent terror as Dustfinger received the worst pummeling of his life. If you or I were to have walked past that cave on that terrible, terrible day we would have heard bloodcurdling screams and cries of terror. We would have noticed a stream of blood trickling between the rocks. We would have seen a terrified woman, held back by two men, covering her parted mouth with wet hands and begging silently for the four men to stop.

Resa's POV

Red.

He was dead. She just knew it. She saw it. She felt it. He was dead._ Dead._

Multiple shades of crimson red had painted his face and dripped from his hands. Her heart had given painful thumps as his breath quivered and sputtered to a fading song. She shook her head, hoping to clear it all away, but there was no such luck. He was _dead_.

_No._

She had seen him shake, quiver, almost, as if he were trying to wake himself up. She had seen him turn his head towards her, slowly, and smile at her with dripping lips and bruised eyes.

She could have screamed for joy. He was alive! He was actually alive! But Basta had dragged her out, kicking and biting, assured that his archenemy was dead. How the audacious fool had smiled. There was nothing more disgusting and selfish than a man who found cruel pleasure in another's pain. She had cried silently during the ride back to the village as she thought of the man that she had left behind in the cage. But now she was determined. Determined to make it up for him; anything that he asked of her she would do. _If he makes it through,_ she had thought silently as Capricorn lectured her privately, _I think I'll teach him to read….so that we can always exchange a few words, the most wonderful words of love and despair._

Hard-Core Writer Me: Ugh, cheesy!

Real Me _(with pencil between my teeth)_: Hm? Eh? Whawasthat?

HCWM: I said, "That last paragraph sucked polenta." Can you spell "excruciatingly cliché?"

M _(shrugs)_: I dunno. _(removes pencil)_ How do you spell excruciating? Anyway, I thought it was a nice love story between Dustfinger and Resa. However, this is not my best work, so you'll have you excuse me for the moment. This story might get rewritten sometime soon.

HCWM _(yelling and waving arms franticly.)_: What? Dustfinger and Resa aren't even in love, you idiot!

M: Well, Dust-y has a crush-y on the Rees-y….

Basta _(sticks his head out of my closet)_: Did I hear Reeses?

M and HCWM: NO!

Basta: Damn! _(returns to closet)_

HCWM _(muttering)_: Why are you even doing this, anyway?

M: This story? Well, I mean, it seems like everybody is doing some form of D+R love story. Either it's Dustfinger/Farid, Dustinger/Resa, Dustfinger/Meggie, and sometimes even Dustfinger/Mo or Dustfinger/Basta! Although I have yet to see a Dustfinger/Elinor….

HCWM _(goes purple in the face)_: No, you _**idiot!**_ I mean this stupid dialogue! WHY ARE YOU EVEN TALKING TO ME IN THE FIRST PLACE?

M: Oh, because I think it's much more fun than an author's note. Now be gone! I have WWE theme songs to dance to! _(disappears into closet where a loud thumping sound can be heard over Shawn Michael's "I'm Just a Sexy Boy!" Hardcore Writer Me is left shaking her head and wondering what went wrong with this world.)_


	8. When Dustfinger First Set Eyes on Roxane

When Dustfinger First Set Eyes on Roxanne

It was hot. Waaaay too hot. Dustfinger wiped the sweat from his face again and smiled at the crowd. It was funny, though. Most people sought refuge in the shade of overarching tents, bargaining extra long with merchants just so that they could escape the pulsing heat. The rich folk sat lazily in the shade of their carriages, idly pinching frosty-glassed drinks with ruby-red nails and letting their eyes wander lazily over the vast expense of sweating human rubble before them. Some of the children had gone as far as climbing leafy trees and seeking refuge in its sticky branches. But not Dustfinger, never Dustfinger. Dustfinger played at an attempt that the people could only marvel at.

In the midst of all this heat there he stood, playing energetically with fire.

Fittingly enough, Dustfinger was covered from head to toe in a sticky sweat that ran into his eyes and clumped up his sandy hair. Even from a distance you could see that his face and bare arms were blotched and patchy with the design of blooming red flowers, yet there he stood, grinning, and mocking the irritating heat.

"Here, drink some water, you" a Strolling Player woman in a garish blue skirt and beaded top handed him pretty blue cistern with water in it. Her face was splotched and her tight bun had become undone but nonetheless Dustfinger smiled at her and lowered his torches. He took a sip from the cup. "Thank you, my lady," He said, wiping his mouth on the cloth she had offered him, "That was very generous of you to save a man like me from his thirsty misery." She blushed, which only made her face look more like a swollen red berry.

"Will you perform a special trick for me, then?" she cooed.

"Off course!"

He raised the torch to his mouth and whispered a few fire words to it. Immediately a string of fiery ribbon burst flickering and frolicking from the burning torch followed by another jet of twisting, spitting fire. Pretty soon a whole parade of fiery, glittering orange ribbon was dancing in the air above her head. Faster and faster they went, spitting sparkles and radiating pure beauty until suddenly they stopped and fell to the slippery stone beneath her feet, nothing but a pile of dusty ashes.

The people around him clapped so hard that he risked loosing his hearing, but soon the praise and laughter died down and he went back to his usual tricks; classy but oddly tranquil. He rolled the fire around his arms, shaped it into triangles, and occasionally sent it flying into the air above his spectators. He loved this. This is what he, Dustfinger, lived for. Every second, every moment of this fiery oblivion was like a moment in Heaven. He laughed out loud to no one in particular as the fire, becoming feisty, snapped lovingly at his hands.

Through the crowds he spotted the Black Prince, sitting on a barrel and stroking his bear's rough fur. The Prince smiled at him with pearly-white teeth and gave him the thumbs up, but then he began to point at something…or someone. Dustfinger spun around on the spot, looking for the object of The Prince's attention and almost dropped the burning torches. Then-he heard it.

A rich lullaby, a quiet singing, came floating to his ears. It was subtle, no more than a quiet melody muttered under somebody's breath, but it was beautiful enough to make his heart pound and make him clumsy on his feet. He extinguished the torches and cast them aside earning himself funny (and disappointed) looks from his spectators. What does this man think he's doing, just standing in the middle of the street with that dazed expression on his face? they were thinking to themselves. But this much was true: Dustfinger was in a daze, captured by the enticing melody. But what's this? The singer was getting closer, a woman's voice wafted to him through the crowd like a very pink aroma, motioning for him to follow. He lumbered on the spot, momentarily confused, and turned to the Prince for help.

The Prince shouted something that was lost over the noise of the crowd.

"What?" Dustfinger shouted back, pointing to his ears, "I didn't hear you!"

The Prince shouted something again and pointed behind him.

_Ah….ah-san? _

"I can't hear you Prince! What did you say?"

The Prince mouthed something again and began to point franticly to a place behind Dustfinger's head.

_Ro….roxan…._

"Roxanne." A soft hand landed on his shoulder. "I'm Roxanne."

Dustfinger spun around…and stared. Time had stopped a long time ago. People edged past them quietly and in slow motion. There was no sun. There was no moon. Was it night or was it day? There was no essence of time. There were only the stars in her eyes and the fire in his heart.

Taken aback, Dustfinger realized that the beautiful singing had stopped. He looked around, panicked, like a rabbit caught in a net until she placed her other hand on his shoulder and pulled him towards her.

"The singing…."

"I was singing," she mouthed to him with a voice as rich as melting chocolate and a red as coral lips, "But I'm not singing anymore."

She looked him up and down unabashedly with coal-black eyes that halted his breathing. Her round face was set, yet questioning, as if she were taking over his whole body with time to ask if he wished to be freed. She sighed and pulled away.

"You're a Fire-Eater." She stated knowingly, eyeing his red costume.

"Yes," he said a bit breathlessly, "And you're a minstrel. You're voice….it's absolutely lovely. It's like the color of the sky on a warm spring night."

She chuckled seductively and looked at the world around her through batted, thick eyelashes. Her red lips traced a smile. "I have heard it put many ways, but that is new. Anyways, I've been watching you perform. Will you perform a special trick for me, then?" She asked semi-mockingly. However, it was less of an inquiry and more of a demand: a demand that Dustfinger was slow to register.

"Wha-? Here, right now? I dunno, I was just gonna-"

Roxanne turned away from him so fast that the tail of her thick red dress whipped his legs and made him wince.

"What's wrong?" He cried, rubbing his stinging ankle. She didn't even turn to look at him. "You'd rather perform for that fat bitch instead of me?" she asked, nonchalantly rearranging the items in her woven basket.

"What? No! Off course not! Roxanne!" He lurched forward and grabbed her arm, surprising both of them. "Please, sit," he said a little bit more humbly, leading her to a dusty bench "Let me just arrange my things."

"Oh, good," She said, grinning warmly, "I just fancy a good show!"

Dustfinger smiled warily at her and bent over to gather his things. Who the hell is this woman? One minute she is as cheery as a fairy and the next she is as pissed as a fire-elves when it realizes that it has been tricked. In his anxiety he knocked over a bottle of fiery white liquid which in turn made her giggle.

-the performance was a catastrophe. Multiple times the fire jumped out of control in its rage and bit his nose in retaliation. Twice he tripped and once he set the hem of her dress on fire. But in the end she laughed and clapped like a little girl at a Christmas party.

"That was great!" she exclaimed.

"R-really?" he said, looking up hopefully.

"No, but you just looked so handsome while doing it."

For some reason this filled him with more contentment and warmth that any compliment could have. "Ha, well, you know-"

"Roxane!"

A voice called to her over the crowd, a dark, demanding voice that made her spin around in annoyance. The voice sent a prickle up Dustfinger's spine. "What is it?" he asked, anxiety creeping into his voice.

"Oh nobody, nothing, nothing…" she murmured as the voice called to her again. "Listen," she said, taking his hand and holding his gaze, "I'd like to see you again. This…thing… you do with fire is interesting. And who knows," here she moved in so close that he was threatened by the prospect of a kiss, "maybe in return I can sing for you sometime!"

And with that she rushed away in a flurry of swishing skirts and fanning black hair. He wanted to call her name but the other man beat her to it, angrier this time, and the lovely syllables of her calling trapped itself in his throat and stayed there like a large, red lump.

_Roxane_.

He smiled to himself and felt the place where her breath had met his cheek. A lovely name for a lovely woman. He trudged over to the Prince with a lovesick gaze on his face.

"Met Roxane, did you?" He asked knowingly.

"Yeah…" Dustfinger responded distractedly. The Prince watched him penetratingly.

"Dustfinger, be careful…." He said uneasily, "Just saw her pass by, running away from that Basta bloke. Just stay outta trouble, okay? Lord knows that that man can get dangerous…."

"Mm-hm," Dustfinger picked up his torches, not really listening, "If Roxanne and I had children, what do you think we'd should name them?" The Prince laughed.

"Well, I've always fancied the name Brianna…"

But Dustfinger wasn't really listening. Twirling the torches between his fingers, he walked away humming his favorite tune and thinking about the girl he'd just met.

Roxane, a _lovely_ name for a _lovely_ woman.

You get the point.

Observant Me _(Reading over my shoulder)_: Name me two qualities of this character Roxane.

Me _(scratches head in annoyance)_: Yes, Roxane, well for one she is supposed to be this majorly beautiful singing goddess that makes even old men horny…you do know who I'm talking about right?

OM _(Grimacing)_: Yes, unfortunately. Go on.

M: Yes, well, and she's also supposed to be some hardcore super-freak. Like, she's rude to Farid, she's always trying to get the scoop on Dustfinger's and Resa's relationship, as soon as Dustfinger _returns_ to Ink-land instead of expressing her relief to see that he's back she gets all edgy and suspicious, and as soon as Dustfinger _left_ from the Ink-world she went and got herself impregnated by another man.

OM: Uh-huh….

M: So, _(reads over story)_ I think that I got both of those qualities in there. Yes, I do mention that she's beautiful and I did include a super-freak scene. Anything I missed?

OM: Eh, PrizJefra, are you spiteful? Are you jealous?

M _(looks up in surprise)_: Of who?

OM: Roxane.

M _(stares open-mouthed)_

OM: I mean she's tall, beautiful, a super freak….everything you want to be….

M _(glances at Reader)_: Shhhh! Not in front of the Reader…..

OM: I'm just sayin'. She has the qualities of, well, Kim Kardashian, that's all.

Roxane _(steps out of closet)_: Yeah, and I'm married to Dustfinger, too. Jealous of that much, little Prizzy?

M _(slamming fist desk)_: Okay, you're going down!

OM and Dustfinger settle back with some butterbeer to watch the pathetic match between a fanfic writer and her beautiful superfreak hardcore character as the Reader hurriedly flips to another story, shaking their head.


	9. DUSTFINGER'S DEATH!

Dustfinger's Death (gasp!)

_Stupid, stupid Capricorn,_

Dustfinger sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

_Heartless, cold beast! That's all that he is. Capricorn, Lord of all Fire-Raisers, thinks he can do what he wants. That miserable, stupid, little…_

_Oh, what am I saying?_

Dustfinger sighed and wiped his nose on his sleeve one more time. Capricorn had power and Dustfinger already knew that anyone in this world who had any shred power is guaranteed to be able to do whatever he or she wants to miserable little entertainers like him. _No more tears, Dustfinger, no more tears_, he told himself sternly as he got up. What was the use of tears in this corrupt world?

His tame marten, Gwin, jumped in surprise and chattered angrily as Dustfinger almost trod on him with his boot

"Sorry little fella," he muttered carelessly, "But if you were me and I were you I know you'd be trying to step on me all the time." Dustfinger uttered a half-hearted laugh and threw himself up onto a large tree branch. He was in the Wayless Woods and above him, on the fourth or fifth mossy branch, hung a fire-elves hive that was so rich with honey that it positively glowed like a moist fire in the shade of the dense green, leafy foliage. Despite the current unfortunate events it was an absolutely lovely day. The wind blew ever so slightly, only enough to ruffle Dustfinger's hair and send the grass in the meadow ahead of him rolling like a white-green wave. The woods were alive today, too, though not in a way that would scare people. The mighty trees yawned and stretched their branches in the gentle sun's warmth, the timid animals of the woods sang quietly to themselves in their homes, and sparkling dew dripped from the trees and splashed on the gray stones. Indeed, it was a beautiful day.

It was Dustfinger's last day.

But he didn't know that.

A swarm of fairies that resembled tiny colorful tropical fruits on wings swarmed up to him and began to dance through his hair, occasionaly dashing off to chase each other through the trees or bringing flowers to put in his ruffled hair

"Thank you, thank you, no really, thank you!" Dustfinger laughed as a fairy with fluorescent blue wings and sparkling purple skin competed with her rouge sister to see who could decorate his hair prettier. He laughed again. "Oh, ladies, come on," He said in an overly sweet tone as he climbed another branch, the fairies close behind him, "You know that I have to go to the fire-elves' nest right now and I just _know_ how much you hate fire-elves." The fairies flew away from him with horrible looks on their faces as if he had said that he would somehow sap their beauty. It was a well known fact that fairies, the little vain things that they were, hated fire elves; they though them very smelly, horrible creatures. But almost as soon as they had flown away they came back and with utmost fascination they haughtily demanded to know who had put those absolutely lovely flowers in his hair. Dustfinger shooed them away and climbed on.

Finally, he had reached his destination: the hive which, at the moment, was buzzing with grumpy fire-elves. One of the elves shot him a reproachful look before disappearing into the tiny opening. All he needed was a really small piece of honeycomb and he would be able to talk to fire for a whole year! Very slowly, as to not scare the fire-elves, he inched forward until he was an arms length away from the hive. Gwin, bristling, jumped off of his shoulder and ran to hide as the Fire-elves stopped what they were doing to size-up the scar-faced intruder. Before he knew it, thousands of angry fire-elves swarmed straight for his unprotected face like an army of fire on wings. But he was prepared. Quietly, as if he had all the time in the world, he began to hum an old song that he had once heard a woman sing when he was a young boy. Immediately the fire-elves slowed down and yawned, drifted lazily towards his bare arms. There they settled like young children and closed their bug-like eyes, dazed by Dustfinger's song. Dustfinger reached out to grab a piece from the hive-

-and stopped.

What was that noise?

Men's voices could be heard: rich, sinister voices that silenced the surrounding forest. Dustfinger heard heavy boots crunch through the forest life and swords that rang out as they sliced the leafy flesh.

"Can't be far away…."

"I know, right? But where did he go?"

"Shhh! Shut up!"

"Aiiiiyeee! A fairy just flew into my eyeball!"

"Ha ha, slice the damn thing. In fact, slice your whole face off. It'll be an improvement!"

"Ouch!"

"How about I slice you?"

"**Shhhhhh**! _shut up_, I said!"

Five men, armed with swords. Dustfinger shifted his head ever so slightly to the left. His heart stopped. There, trudging directly under him was five of Capricorn's nastiest men. You could tell that they were Capricorn's fire-raisers by their black, black suits and the eerie emblem of a fiery goat tattooed on their chests. Everything about these men reminded Dustfinger of fire. Their varying shades of dark, greasy hair was like thick black smoke, their eyes were tinted slightly yellow, and their grins, those terrible spine-tingling grins and daring personalities reminded him of the way that fire taunts and bites at you when it is feeling evil and mysterious. Dustfinger gulped as they sat down at the base of a tree: the tree that he was in.

"We'll never catch him this way," a man said mournfully as he passed around tin can filled with what looked like a narcotic-like root that usually only grew in the darker part of the Wayless Woods.

"Yeah, not with you complainin' and whatnot, we'll never get there," A thin man with a nose as impressive as a blade said as he took a handful of the crumbly black powder and stuffed it in his mouth.

"A fairy flew into my eyeball!"

"So? You didn't have to be so loud about it." Another man said, sharpening his sword on a rock.

Dustfinger knew why they were here. A few days ago three men in curious black jackets had come to Roxanne's house looking for him. They had stated, in low voices, that a very interesting proposition awaited him if he paid a visit to a very important man. Against Roxane's warnings he had followed the three men uncertainly through the forest until they had reached Capricorn's castle. At the time, Dustfinger didn't know much about Capricorn except that the man played games with fire: dangerous games. But as soon as Dustfinger had been dragged forcefully towards him Capricorn began to speak of riches, alliance, and protection: prospects that sent Dustfinger's heart beating madly. "Teach me how to play with fire," he had said, looking down at him with cold eyes, "Teach me how to play your games and I will set you free from this poverty-stricken life in which you live, you and your family." Off course Dustfinger had fallen for it, thinking of no one but his wife and two daughters at home and how much they would benefit from it. He had willingly obeyed and began to teach Capricorn everything that he knew. He taught him the deepest, darkest secrets of fire and how to control and tame it like a pet. He taught him things that not even he, Dustfinger, understood. But then there came a day when Capricorn had mastered the art and began to use it for his own good. When Dustfinger had timidly approached him and asked for the reward Capricorn had shook his head and laughed.

"You gullible fool. What makes you think that I would help you? You're just a weak, pathetic fire-eater who is too afraid to use what he has to save his own hide. Besides, I am Capricorn: Lord of the Fire-Risers. I am in no one's debt."

And with that he had declared a hunting day on Dustfinger. He made it into a game; the first of his men to catch Dustfinger first and torture him the most roguishly while keeping him alive would be rewarded with a desirable prize and given a worthy title. And that's why these men were here. Every one of Capricorn's men were out and about searching for Dustfinger and licking their lips as they dreamt of the gold ahead of them. Capricorn would never admit to have had a tutor when it came to fire, so he was going to have the tutor killed, no matter what.

Unfortunately, the sharp grating sound coming from the man sharpening his sword began to wake up the fire-elves who had already shown signs of stirring when Dustfinger had stopped humming. He franticly began humming again as the first sign of blisters began to show on his skin. Where was Gwin?

One of the men, a hard-core looking male with a firm frame and a set face cast his eyes up into the tree where Dustfinger was perched with his arms still outstretched. His heart stopped beating.

"No fire-elves today…" the man mumbled, staring up at the empty nest. The rest off the men looked up at the place that was only a few inches from Dustfinger's face. Dustfinger thanked all the Fortune in the world that the rest of the men were high. If they had been in control of their full senses then one of them would have spotted him through the leafy branches. But that one man, though, the one with the hard eyes….he knew something was wrong. He peered one more time through the concealing branches and looked away. Dustfinger grimly noticed that the man was not hopped up on drugs.

"_Come on_, Zio, _iss nuhsing!" _said a scrawny man whose eyes were already starting to roll up into his head.

"Yeah, yeah iss nuhsing," the youngest of the group said, "iss nohsing iss, iss…issssssss…..do you guys smell that?" The rest of the men snapped awake and looked around warily.

"Yeah, i-it smells like-"

"-a marten!" The men jumped to their feet and stared a place just out of Dustfinger's view. Zio drew his knife and the other men followed suit.

A marten?

Where was Gwin?

Panicking, Dustfinger slapped the Fire-Elves from his arms and climbed another branch in the tree, trying to get closer. There, backed up against a tree, sat Gwin with his sharp teeth barred and his bushy tail held high in the air.

"Heh heh, I wanna wear that ermin as a fur scarf, ha ha!" One of the men threw a rock at Gwin who by now had begun to spit and look around franticly. Spotting a breaking, he made a run for it only to be kicked straight in the head by Zio's boot. "I want this rat to adorn my boot," he said, prodding Gwin's small throat with the tip of his knife. Gwin had stopped moving, but when Zio when picked him up by his tail he uttered a small hiss and his eyes flashed in annoyance and fear.

The Fire-Elves had started to sting back in retaliation, but Dustfinger took no notice of them. The red-hot sores on his pale, sweaty skin felt similar to the lump in his throat as he watched Zio place Gwin on his back on the compact ground and hold him with his boot.

"Killit, killit, killit, killit," the men had begun to chant with nasty grins on their lips.

Zio raised his knife.

The sun glinted on the rust blade.

_Do it._

_Don't do it._

_Dustfinger!_

_Save him! Save Gwin!_

_Do it!_

_Don't do it!_

_Dustfinger!_

_Don't do it!_

Eyes squished close he jumped form the tree and landed on Zio with such a force as to send them both to the ground. Both men screamed, whether in agony or anger as they grappled to keep each other down. "Don't do it! Don't kill Gwin!" Dustfinger heard himself scream, blinded by tears. The other man gasped, eyes rolling franticly and then, juts like that,

it was over.

It was a nice day in the Wayless Woods. It was positively lovely. The misty sun shone through the moist leaves and bathed everything it touched in a nice warm glow. It was silent, though. The fairies stood still with gaping mouths and tearing eyes, the Brownies peeked out of their dens with a worried looks, and even the Night-Mares emerged and looked on the scene with curious red eyes. The wind rustled the grass and the Fire Dancer's sandy hair. Once again the dew dripped. It splashed merrily onto the mourning rocks and dribbled cheerfully down its smooth sides. Once at the ground it warily mixed with another fluid, a fluid more dark and ominous, a frowning fluid, a nasty fluid.

This fluid was Dustfinger's blood.

He felt the blade leave his back; he heard the soft _sssshhhhlllliiiiiinnnnngg_ as it left his body like something so foreign finally getting up and going home. There was no pain. Where was the pain? Did it spare him? Did it pity him?

Dustfinger slowly looked up and looked at Zio who was blocking out the sunlight. Zio looked back at him, his face conveying regret, pity, and even shock at what he had done. The surrounding men laughed and advanced towards Dustfinger's limp body but Zio put out a hand to stop them and, in that moment, they realized the solemnity of the situation.

Dustfinger put a hand to his bleeding shoulder and brought his hand to his eyes. The blood on his fingers looked serene, unreal, and almost beautiful in the white-hot sunlight. He looked back up at Zio with watering eyes.

"Roxane….."

"Who?" Zio bent down to hear better. Gwin trudged up and, as if sensing the tragedy that had befallen his master, nudged Dustfinger lovingly on the cheek. Dustfinger reached out a hand and stroked the silky fur, (something that would otherwise would not have been tolerated) accidently getting blood all over the ruffled coat.

"Briana….Rosanna….."

He smiled, tears rolling down his cheeks, as he stroked Gwin's dirty fur.

"Stupid Gwin, didn't I always tell you that I was afraid of death?"

And with that the fire-breather drew his last breath, the life in his body extinguished like the heart of a crying flame.

He knew something had happened. He warily scuttled forward and snuffled at his master's fingers. Immediately his tiny body was filled with a terrible sense of despair of which he had never felt before. That was strange. Why was his master's fingers cold? Weren't they usually burning hot like the shapeless, orange pet that he usually played with?

Gwin gave off a furious chatter. What had happened? The big man with the frowning face inched closer to the still man's body and whispered words that Gwin didn't understand. Immediately the men around him came forward, shouldered the still body, and began to walk away with it. Gwin gave another furious chattered as he scurried to avoid the tramping feet. The big man turned around and stared at him with a funny look. Was he going to give him food? But all too soon the man lunged and seized the squirming Gwin in his grasp.

"I'm gonna kill you…"

But Gwin did not understand such a threat. He bit the hand that held him until a foul taste filled his mouth. The man let out a scream and a frightened Gwin scurried into the nearest brush, only once stopping to glance curiously at his dead master.

Roxane stood warily in the doorway. Braced cautiously against the frame she scanned the surrounding woods with reddened eyes.

"Where's daddy?" her eldest daughter called from inside the small cottage. She ignored her and soon the sobbing began. Not her's, her daughter's. The wind blew playfully and ruffled her black hair, gently urging her to go inside and bask in the warmth coming from the small hearth in the kitchen. But she shook her head and stood braced rigidly against the door, scanning the forest, looking for her husband.

Something shot from the bush unexpectedly and ran towards her feet.

"Gwin!" she exclaimed. But something was wrong. The animal was making frequent stops and looking back in a curious way.

"Oh, come here you," she said distractedly, scooping up the shivering animal, "where's your master?"

She froze.

"W-what's this?" She ran her finger over the animal's damp fur and inspected the copper residue.

"B-blood?" She looked up in horror.

"Gwin, no!" She let out a scream. Gwin, scared, rushed out of her grasp and shot away past the now cackling goose. She threw a rock after him.

"Get out," she screamed, tears flying down her pale face, "Where is he, dammnit? No, no, no, no, no! You were supposed to protect him, Gwin! You were supposed to protect him!"

She sunk down; sobbing loudly, as her two daughters came running out of the cottage, looking around worriedly.

"What is it, mommy?" cooed the youngest as the elder surveyed the yard, pitchfork in hand.

"I had told him as a joke," Roxane managed, between sobs and huge sniffles, "t-that h-he should never go out w-w-without Gwin because…the day that that faithless creature separates from his m-mm-master will be the day that….o-one of them will d-d-die!"

Rosana looked up curiously as her mother began a small chorus of broken _no_s and shaky screams. She hadn't understood a word of this. Where was her daddy?

Brianna stood frozen unsurely in the yard, clutching a huge, rusty pitchfork that looked ridiculously big in her small, white hands. With fire in her heart she had sworn that she would stab to death any intruder who dared enter her mom's yard while her daddy was gone. She had sworn to herself that she would kick them, stab their eyes out, and yell the worst curse words that she knew. But nothing could prepare her for this. This news, this feeling, was not something that she could put a prong though. She lowered the fork and turned around to look at her momma. For a minute she met her sister's eyes as she fearfully held the shaking woman in her small arms.

_Daddy's dead._

_Dustfinger's dead._

Her eyes prickled, but she could not bring herself to cry. She squished her eyes shut and swallowed hard. _Well_, she forced herself to believe, _he shouldn't have been going out in the first place, leaving us behind. Now he's gone and got himself killed. H–he deserves it. _These last words shocked her so much that she gasped and dropped the pitchfork. She began to cry.

"I didn't mean it, mommy!" she screamed as she ran to her mother, "I didn't mean it! He doesn't deserve this!" She buried herself in her mother's breasts and soon the three women, young and old, began to cry. "I didn't mean it," Brianna cried to the darkening sky, "I just want Dustfinger back."

Author's Dialogue

Real Me _(cries uncontrollably)_

Simply Here to Be Informative Me _(reads over critically)_: Dustfinger never died in this way…

RM _(amidst a wave of new, fresh tears)_: Oh y-yes he did! This I-i-is Fenoglio's version w-where Dustfinger dies in the, the book. You know the real book? The part where Capricorn's men are out hunting him?

SHBIM: Ahh, yes, I see…._(keeps reading)_

RM: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!  
SHBIM: Hmmm, how old are Brianna and Rosanna at this point.

RM (_sniffles)_: Juh-just young-'uns. Simply young-'uns. Around three or four?

SHBIM: The part where it switches from Dustfinger's point of view is Gwin's point of view, correct? Who is "The Big Man" v "The Still" man than we read about?

RM: "The Still Man" is the dead Dustfinger and the "Big Man" is Zio, obviously.

SHBIM: Huh…..

RM (_sniffles)_

_(Awkward silence)_

RM: Er…..

SHBIM: Bye, then.


	10. Capricorn's Cildhood: Age Ten

Important Author's Dialogue

Somewhat Oblivious Me: (_reading over my shoulder_) Enzio? What? Who's Enzio?

Me: (_coolly, feeling superior_) Capricorn, duh.

SOM: (_somewhat hssssssysterically_) Wha? But Capricorn's name is Capricorn, not Enzio!

M: _Eh-heeeeh_, but this is before the time when Capricorn, er, Enzio, decided to change his name.

SOM: WHAT?

M: *sighs* (_whispers to Reader_) You can go ahead and read the actual story if you want to and not continue the dialogue. It was just for people who were confused about the whole Enzio thing. If you're still confused please read on.

SOM: (_shaking uncontrollably_) WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO? WHY ARE YOU NOT ANSWERING MY QUESTION?

M: *sighs again* Look, in the book it says that the only reason why Capricorn decided to change his name was because he forgot his old name, which I decided to make Enzio. This story is set before he forgot his name.

SOM: (_starts crying and ripping her vibrant red hair out maniacally_) WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! I DON'T UNDESTAND! (_Vanishes in a poof of red smoke_)

Age Ten

_Bing, Bing , Bing._

The sound of copper on silver resounded up and down the alley, along with the thick, black smell of burning coal and melting metals. But the people didn't mind; they were used to it. Both men and women passed by the Smith's hut with no mind for the sound (or smell) coming from the small adobe building. However, there was one person who just couldn't stand the smell or the commotion.

A young boy around the age of ten sat rigidly on the edge of a stone bench, hands in lap, watching his father move about the hut with wide, wide eyes. The boy's knees were shaking so much that they knocked together, and his clasped hands were sweaty in anticipation, for he was afraid; afraid that at any moment his father would turn around and demand of him some cruel task or jeer or beckon him closer. They boy always lived in fear of those few seconds where his father would turn his cold eyes on him, sneer, and use his powerful voice as a whip against the boy's bare feelings. Indeed, that's just what he did now. Red-hot tongs in hand, he turned around and peered over his shoulder at his son with cruel blue eyes.

"Enzio,"

The boy jumped and, in his haste to stand up, knocked over the stone bench on which he had been sitting.

"Y-yes, father?" his voice came out as a faltering squeak as the tears already began to gather in his eyes and a lump began to form in his throat.

"Come here."

Enzio would do anything to run the other way, to stab his father in the gut, spit in his eye, and yell, "No! No, I won't!" But his fear was too strong and instead he hobbled up to his father's side.

"Hold out your hands."

The boy obeyed and to his horror saw his father carefully remove a red hot coal from the foggy fireplace. "What's this I hear about you being bullied by Fenner's son?" he asked quietly, inspecting the coal as if it were some new and foreign object.

"I-I, he….father, well, we were squabbling, mere squabble-"

His father thrust the burning coal in is hand and Enzio screamed. "Hold it!" his father roared as Enzio made a move to drop it. The man watched his son for a few moments, relishing the twisted look on the young boy's face.

"If I see so much as one tear slide down your face I will kill you," the boy's father said nonchalantly, looking for somewhere to sit. Contenting himself with a threadbare cushion in the corner he sat down and watched his son over the edge of the fire.

"Hold out your hand,"

"Father, I can't! It burns!" Enzio gushed, red in the face, tears sliding down his face. His father struck him so hard in the face that his body was stunned and the tears froze in their place.

"As I was saying," the man continued, reaching over and plucking another piece of coal from the fire, "I actually admire that Fenner's son. He's a good boy he is. I'd choose him any day over you." He placed the second coal lovingly in his son's burning hands. Enzio gave a muffled scream and his father struck him again, this time kicking him hard in the face. "You know why I like Fenner's son?" he inquired his son who by now was dripping blood into the burning coals in his hands. "Because he is strong. He is powerful. He will be a leader one day. Now let me tell you something, boy. That blood dripping from your nose is my blood, that name that you bear is my name. Bear it well! Ahh, but you don't. Instead you sit before me, your father, a man of great feats, sniveling and crying like a baby rat. Be strong, boy! Bear my name well! Bear my blood well! Prove to me that I should not kill you right now. And how will you do that? You will be the strongest. And why?" He wrenched his son's chin up and looked him squarely in the eye. The boy knew what was coming next. It had been literally drummed into his head since he was just a babe. He sighed, inhaling a mouthful of blood.

"_Because rules are made by the strongest, so I must make sure that I am one of them_."

"Goooood….." His father stood up and thumped his son hard on the back so that the boy went flying, causing hot coals to rain down his shirt. "Go home and help your mother with work," his father said sleepily, "I want to come home to a nice, big dinner. Oh, and, get yourself ready tonight. Lord knows I need some good relaxation."

The boy winced as he slinked out of the hut, brushing crumbs of black dust from his trousers. He knew that there was never a such thing as "a nice, big dinner" in his house and, no matter what he did, his father would never relax until he had finally got his say.

Me: (_sighing, stretching legs_) Aaaah, glad that's over with. Hey, Somewhat-Oblivious-Me? Can you tell the reader that this whole childhood thing of Capricorn's is gonna be a series and that they should alert for part two?

(_Silence._ Me _looks around._)

M: Somewhat-Oblivious-Me?

(_Silence_)

M:…shiat…su. Oh well. (_cracks knuckles_) Time to start part two: Capricorn, Age Thirteen!


	11. When MO Met Resa

As always, it was too hot of a day in Italy. Mortimer attempted to roll down the creaky window in his tiny van but it got stuck halfway and he was left cursing quietly at the "advances" of technology. This was years ago, before Mortimer became Mo, before Mo became Silvertongue, and before Silvertongue became the Bluejay. Indeed, this story was set in the years before all of that discord, the years where Mo was young and so was a pretty woman who went by the name of Resa-,-just-Resa.

Mortimer pulled up into huge gravel driveway that lay in the shadows of a looming house that could have appropriately been called a fortress. He looked up at the drawn shades with some apprehension as he rang the doorbell. He gathered from the phone call earlier that day that the Mistress of this house was a bit eccentric and it was with much regret that he did not go back to his car, lock the doors, and drive away.

"Ah, Mortimer, is it?" A tall woman with a sturdy build and messy hair opened the door and stared down at Mortimer with such a gaze as to make him shiver.

"Yes. Miss Elinor?" He smiled and held out his hand which she did not take. She snickered.

"Obviously. But let us not waste our time on frivolities. I have books that need mending immediately or else I am afraid that the power of their stories might sap. Books can do that, you know."

Mortimer nodded, not sure how to respond to such a comment, and awkwardly followed her into the residence. Once inside he gasped.

"How…lovely," he noted, glancing around at the ceiling. The walls were covered not in portraits, racks, or windows, but shelves, shelves and shelves of books, new and old, a sight that filled him with a sense of longing and comfort. He'd always liked, no, loved, no, _appreciated _books.

"Yes. Simply amazing, isn't it." said Elinor, although her voice conveyed a certain sense of prideful ennui. "They've all accumulated over the years, these ones, and are not particularly useful to me. It's these books over here that need attention. You think you can fix them?"

Mortimer picked up a tattered book from a gold lined table and weighed it in his hands.

"Oh yes, yes, yes," he flipped the book over and looked at its title, "Tom Sawyer. I have memories with this book. We go way back, this book and I." He was thinking about the time, long ago where, while reading this book, he had discovered that his reading abilities weren't exactly _normal_. However, Elinor just smiled, oblivious to the faraway look on his face.

"Oh yes," she said, warming up, "so do I. I studied this book in high school. Freshman year. It was the first time that I ever lay hands on this book. It was love at first sight, it was. That why I need you to mend it. It has sentimental value, this one does."

"I'll do my best," Mortimer said, giving her a reassuring smile, "but, er, do you mind if I take a look around? As an avid book lover myself I have a great curiosity about your collection."

Elinor's face darkened and for a moment Mortimer thought she would say no, he could not, but instead she gave a polite shrug and said, "As you like." He thanked her and walked up the twisting staircase onto the second floor, stopping at the landing to admire a particularly ornate wooden shelf with smooth, polished cherry wood and a glass covering. Underneath the case there were titles like _The Odyssey, The Wife of Bath's Tale, and One Thousand and One Arabian Nights_ huddled next to important looking hand scribbled letters yellowed over the ages. Mortimer put his face closer to the glass until he could not see for his breath frosting up the glass.

"Oh, and watch out for my niece. She's a bit tricky."

Mortimer barely had time to register the warning before he heard a soft giggle, "Don't mind my great-aunt. Between you and me, _she's_ the one who's….a bit _eccentric_."

Mortimer spun around, and smiled, "Just a bit?" The woman smiled, too, temporarily averting her pretty blue eyes as she put down her paint brush.

"My name is Theresa, but you can call me Resa." She straightened up and held out a paint speckled hand.

"Mo-mortimer Folchart," he stammered, taking her hand. For a minute when their hands met Mortimer felt a warming sensation in his breast, a calming sensation, a sensation that made him feel stronger, weaker, prouder and bold. He wondered if, behind those electric blue eyes, she could feel it too.

"Mortimer, hmm," She turned around abruptly and resumed her work, carefully tracing the frizzy-haired brush over lines drawn on the doorway. Mortimer watched her work, his mind some where else in a place where it probably shouldn't be. She was beautiful, this woman. Beautiful, calm, and graceful even though she wore large, baggy overalls and brown working boots that looked rather comical on a petite woman like her. But her face, her skin her hands were alabaster, the veins beneath her skin traced graceful lines on her fingers, and her hair, complementing sophisticated eyes, glowed softly in the slanting sunlight.

"What are you painting?" he asked vaguely because he knew it was impolite to stare.

"Oh, this? Don't you recognize it? Well, maybe not, I haven't finished it yet, but it's a famous printer's sign- Aldus Manutius. You remember? He was the one who printed the book that were the right size to fit in his customer's saddlebags."

"I remember," Mortimer murmured, watching her "It's…lovely."

"Yes," she breathed, finally turning to look at him, "It is."

"Mortimer!" They both jumped at the sound, "I am paying you to restore my books to their rightful state, _not_ to chat with my niece. Get down here right this minute!"

Resa laughed and turned away, "Told ya," she said, shaking her head, "I suggest you watch out for _her_. 'She's a bit tricky.'"

Later on, Mortimer didn't know how long he had been up fixing and repairing old books. His eyes had become red long ago and his jaws ached from yawning so often, but he promised he would save these books and, anyway, he was on his last one. Yawning again, he flipped through the pages with mild interest, more in a daydream than anything.

"Knock, knock," the door to the room was pushed open slowly and in came Resa. "Sorry to bother you, but it's just that you've been in here a long time and I though that you might like a refresher."

"Oh, yes, thank you," he took the tea he offered her and sipped it gratefully. "Mm, what is it?"

"Chai and cocoa," she said distractedly, flipping through the pages of the book on his desk, "I've never seen this book before. What is it?"

"Dunno. I wasn't paying much attention to the story, which is odd for a person like me."

She didn't seem to have heard him. Forehead crinkled, she flipped through page after page after page while he stared patiently into the flickering candle light. "Ooh," she said, "Listen to this:

_No matter how hard he tried to break her spirit she would not be fazed, Oh that Meggie Price! No, in fact he could not touch her, for she was something that he could only aspire to be: strong like a bull, proud as a queen, as quiet as violet, with a gaze like fire, and useful as steel but above all that she had love. She was love, she gave love, she took love, and she offered love with cold, ashen hands._

Isn't that nice? Meggie, I've always liked that name. If I had a daughter, that's what I would name her."

"Me too," Mortimer said, not yet realizing the light implication. Resa blushed and put down the book. "Well, I guess I should be getting off to bed. Don't stay up to late, you!" she wagged her finger at him and closed the door, taking with her the light that had been spilling in from the hallway (or was it the light that had been purely radiating from her cheeks?) Mortimer set down the china cup and sighed. He, how dare his stupid heart, he was in love.

"Good night, Resa," he called.

"Good night, Mo,"

Real Me: (_flipping through pages of Inkheart_) _Inkheart_ was actually set in Italy, right?

Highly Sophisticated Geographical Me: How should I know?

RM: You took a year of geography in high school!

HSGM: So, what does that have to do with anything?

RM: (_rolls eyes_)

HSGM: At least I don't get all of my Italian related facts from Ezio's perspective.

RM: (_gasp_) Assassin's Creed is very informative! And on that note I think that Dustfinger would make a kick-ass Ezio!

HSGM: That he would. Or the other way around, you know? (_sips tea_) Chai and Cocoa isn't even good.

RM: Oh, shut up. I just chose that because it was the first thing that I saw in my cupboard.

HSGM: _Tres romatique._

RM: Shut up, I said. (sighs) This, by far, has been the worst Author's Dialogue ever.

HSGM: True that, yo.


	12. When the Black Prince Freed his Bear P1

Part One

Flashes of black, glimpses of brown: round and round the spinner goes, spitting blood on passersby's' clothes. The crowd was ecstatic. The ladies screeched and laughed as they clutched ringed hands to tattered sleeves, the men watched on with polite smirks and folded arms, and the children weaved in and out of the moaning mass, brandishing sticks, asking and begging to have one hit, too.

"Ooh," the bear turned, his mouth agape, his yellow eyes rolling, his paws waving in some sad pantomime of a dance. His master stood behind him, arms crossed, a proud smirk on his face. Every once in a while he would lash out with a thorny stick and the bear would "sing" a long, low melody that echoed forlornly in the hollow hearts of the demons and demonetts that stood around him, applauding this sick behavior.

"Stop! You're hurting him!"

The bear turned, his yellow eyes searching, but the voice was lost in the crowd. A skinny boy pushed his way through the multitude, parting the Red Sea of billowing skirts and masculine, sinewy limbs, panting much like the bear himself and in a state of just as much agitation. His skinny twig legs could only take him so far, but all the same the crowd spewed him out of their midst onto the legs of the bear's master. The man peered into the boy's brown face with about as much interest as a hyena would a fly.

"Leave him alone! You're hurting him."

The crowd was silenced and the bear temporarily stopped its twirling charade to nurse its bleeding muzzle. The big man scratched his head and a shower of white lice fell onto the boys ashy arms. "What? What did you say, boy?"

"Please, if you could just-"

The man raised the thorny stick and brought it down on the boy's face with a sickening _thip _that knocked the boy over onto his side. The bear howled and ladies laughed.

"Ya hear that, boy? He likes it. He's singin'. Anyway, it's none of your business what I do with my possession, right? Now you go and run to yuh mummy and tell her to scrub some of that dirt of ya skin, ah right?" The man turned back to the bear and slapped its dirty back with the stick. Immediately it began to howl and twirl stupidly on the spot. The show resumed and the bear's matted fur became more and more copper purple with each resounding _thump_. The young boy burnt, brown, furious, white-eyed, who would soon become known by the legendary name The Black Prince, lunged himself, dirty soles, rags and all, at the large brawn-no-brain man. The two wrestled for the possession of the thorny stick and once again the bear howled as the crowd grew, enticed by this new faux spectacle. Eventually the boy won and he ran on skinny legs as far away from them, the people, the crowd, the man, and the bear as he could into the surrounding forest.

_Later_

I don't know if the Inkworld ever actually had a time scale. But it was definitely a _vrais _sort of nighttime when the young Prince set out, not the hours in between day and night, the pretend night called dawn, or the type of night where the stars where clustered up behind clouds. It was the time of night that introduced a new kind of people, the people not seen in the daylight or by the eyes of ordinary men. These were the smugglers, the prostitutes, the rapists, the silent thieves, the midnight dancers, the true hunters, the drunkards, the storytellers, and a newly forming group that would later on be known as the Motley Folk. The young boy never imagined that he would join this group, be apart of them as they traversed their separate lives in the beautiful concealing light of the silent, and watching night. Indeed the boy had never really operated in these hours of the dark and he had to admit to himself as he raised the torch higher over his head that he was afraid of the dark. But all the same there was something so mystical and euphoric about the wet things that brushed against his arm, the unknown growl, the red-ish eyes, the men shadowed in black that rustled through the bushes quicker and stealthier than any gazelle. But all too soon the dark receded into a shallow little inn with ugly, glowing lights like dusty, yellow eyes that watched him as he squatted in the bush, cupping his torch with one dry palm. He knew the man would be lounging there tonight and his bear wouldn't be far. He looked around the dirty yard and, sure enough, he spotted the bear, a poor, forlorn, lonely soul crouched near a pole. The sight of him, the big, furry lump, filled his heart with hopeless longing and love.

He sprang from his hiding place and only when he was standing toe to toe with the strange, silent creature did he realize how dangerous this might be. "Hi," he said breathlessly, running his hand down the bear's muzzle. The bear purred deep in his throat and one eye flashed, barely visible, as it looked at the young Prince. "I'm going to get you out of here," the Prince, whispered, feeling along the rusty chain that kept the bear in place. "But how do I do that?"

He tried yanking the chains free, untying it with his tiny fingers, gnawing on it, and finally resorting to scratching at it with his stubby fingernails. "Sorry, I didn't wanna hafta do this…." Holding his breath, he brought the flames of the torch to the chains around the bear's neck, hoping to melt or break it. For a minute the links glowed an innocent red but all the same the smell of charred flesh filled the air and the bear roared a long, drawn-out howl of pain and surprise. The boy ducked to avoid the slashing paws and claws as simultaneously the door to the inn slammed open and the man of the house stood in the doorway. "Oh, shutup, ya big lump!"

A glass bottle flew through the night and connected with the bear's huge head with a loud _thunk. _The boy cowered behind the bear's bulk until he was sure the man had gone for good, then, timidly, he stood up. "Okay," he said, more to himself than to the bear, "I'm going to do it again. It will be no easy job, but if it sets you free then I'll do it." He was about to raise the torch again when a new voice said,

"If you're gonna steal my bear, try not to kill him in the process. What use would a dead bear be on the market?"

The young Prince whirled around, holding his torch up to, if need be, scald the face of his attacker but it was not the master or even a full-grown man but handsome little lad around the same age as the young Prince.

"Dustfinger!" yelled the young Prince, pouting, "What are you doing here?"

"What do you think? I'm helping you," Dustfinger jumped from the fence on which he sat and hesitantly approached the bear, "and keep your voice down."

"I was doing perfectly fine on my own!"

Dustfinger scoffed, examining the chains, "Please, scalding the bear as well as yourself in the process? Didn't your momma ever teach you not to play with fire?"

The Prince grinned, "Nope. Never had a momma."

"Then let me tell you now; 'Don't play with fire.'" They both laughed and the bear growled.

"Fine. Then if I can't play with fire, maybe you can?"

Dustfinger suddenly looked a bit anxious. "Come on, he's friendly," urged the young Prince, a note of desperation ringing in his little voice, "put that talent of yours to work and help a friend!"

"But the bear…"

"Dustfinger! We don't have much time. Help me help a friend in need."

Dustfinger sighed and cautiously lumbered up to the bear. "Doesn't look much like a friend at the moment," But he set to work, feeling along the chains with his bare hands, groping the rusty metal with cold, stiff fingers. "Keep a lookout," young Dustfinger whispered.

The young Prince looked around and nodded. It was still dark out. The sky was velvet black and seductive in its ways and it watched the Prince with malicious, twinkling eyes. A candle was lit in a window, and this the Prince watched as Dustfinger began to do his thing; whispering words that were once easy-going and simple, yet harsh and complicated: words that the Prince understood, but could not quite grasp, words that brought a deft fire to life that twisted and coiled around the bear's chain like some living thing. The candle in the window flickered longingly, yearning to be apart of its sister's fiery spectacle but all too soon the fire went out and the still simmering chains fell to the ground with a defeated hiss. The bear stood hesitantly, pawing at its neck to register the new feeling of freedom, then sniffed at the chains at his feet, withdrawing with a low growl when his nose got singed by the vengeful copper.

"Dustfinger, you did it!" The Prince hugged his friend while hot, salty tears stung his cheeks and matted his dark eyelashes.

"Yes, yes, all right." Dustfinger said, his voice muffled by the Prince's shoulder, "But how do we get it out of here? I mean, you don't think it will just walk off on his free will, do you?"

"Off course he will," The Prince replied, "Look, watch. Come here, black bear. Come here. You're free now."

The bear grunted at him, pawing anxiously at the ground. Its eyes flashed red in the moonlight but still it did not move an inch closer. "Come here, bear," The Prince moved up closer and placed his tiny palm upon the bears nose, burying his own forehead in the soft tuft's of hair below the bear's ears. "Please," The Prince murmured, "Come with me. We can be free now."

Two things happened at once. The back door swung open once more and the man of the house stormed towards them, tugging a fearful girl child by the wrist. The bear let out a roar and swung the Prince backwards onto the cold ground. And the man came closer yet.

To Be Continued…


	13. When the Black Prince Freed his Bear P2

_ Immediately, two things happened at once. The back door swung open once more and the man of the house stormed towards them tugging a fearful girl child by the wrist. The bear let out a roar and swung the Prince backwards onto the cold ground. The first rays of daylight were starting to show above the dull gray clouds._

"You!" the man hauled the Prince up by his scrawny neck, brandishing a dirty glass bottle in one hand and breathing stale breath into the Prince's face, "This little wench came up to me a few minutes ago and told me that a little boy as black as the night was trying to steal my bear. You wouldn't happen to know who he is, would you?"

The Prince gulped, but no matter how hard he tried the cold air that he forced into his mouth would not get through his pounding throat. He was suffocating, he was dying. He kicked and scratched but the man would not let go and soon his feeble attempts became weaker and weaker as the oxygen stopped filtering through his brain. He was dying. His vision became red at the edges, his head hurt terribly, and it was becoming such trouble to breath, such trouble, such…..trouble…..

Suddenly the man let go and the young Prince fell gasping to the ground. He looked around and there stood Dustfinger, brandishing two orange globes in his tiny fists and looking at the man with much malice in his eyes. The sight of him was both terrifying and humorous in the light of the misty dawn.

"How…..dare you…..choke my friend….how….DARE YOU!" Dustfinger ran forward and thrust his hands in the man face. The man screamed in pain and clutched his sizzling, melting face. "You dirty little fucker!"

Before the young Prince could interfere he man had picked Dustfinger up and was viciously slapping him until the poor boys tongue hung out of his mouth and his cheeks turned blue. The sound attracted onlookers who peered timidly from their widows.

"No! Dustfinger!" The Prince lunged and bit at the giant oaf who by then had slammed Dustfinger's ragdoll body on the trunk of a tree, knocking him out. The man laughed and picked up the struggling Prince.

"Boy, boy, boy. Didn't your momma ever teach you limits?"

"I never had a momma!" The Prince screamed, blinded by tears, barely able to pick at the slippery, wet fingers that held onto his shirt. He forced himself to look into those eyes, those bloody, absent eyes that simmered and popped as the skin melted around it. The man laughed again.

"Oh no? Then let me teach you, then?" The man brought his hand up and slammed the glass bottle on the top of the Prince's head. Somewhere a lady screamed. The Prince shook his head, his vision blurred, but he could do nothing as the bottle came down again with a sickening crunch on the top of his head. He heard the glass shatter to the ground (it's soft shinkling noise oddly beautiful in his ears) and the sound of pounding feet and angry snorting. The Man screamed and The Prince fell and The Bear fought and The Onlookers screamed and The Young Boy lay still at the base of the tree. But all too soon it was too quiet. The Prince looked up, blood streaming into his eyes. It was strangely still. There was no one there. No movement except over there. The Prince dragged himself to where Dustfinger lay peacefully at the base of the tree. The young boy shook his friend by the shoulder. He wanted to say his name, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Three white women stood at the base of various trees, looking down upon the scene with blank expressions. The boy threw himself down on his friend's face and covered his ears.

"Go away!" He screamed through tears. "Go away! I don't need you! He doesn't need you! Just go away."

The women came closer, not really gliding but rather forming and reforming through the swirling blue mist, making everything feel icy and whispering words that he did not understand but knew to be Dustfinger's name.

"Go away," he muttered, pressing his face against Dustfinger's collarbone, "Go away,"

And suddenly they disappeared. Just like that. The mist resumed its usual slow trafficking and the night returned to its silent stare. The Prince heard quiet shuffling and spun around.

"You!"

There the bear sat, panting, watching the Prince with a guilty look on its big, furry face. The bear purred and nudged the Prince's shoulder. "I'm sorry, too." The Prince said, stroking the bear's bloody muzzle. "Look at him, bear. What will we do? Nobody cares about a scrawny, dirty kid in this world. No one. But they don't know that Dustfinger's more than just a scrawny, dirty kid. He's much more than that. Much more. But you and I know that, and that's just fine."

The bear moaned and pawed at Dustfinger's leg, as if assuring that the Prince's words were true, and then rested his great head on Dustfinger's neck, singing softly to himself. The Prince sniffed, and looked at the wet sky. Sooner or later the guard's would come and all they would see was one dead man, one mangy bear, and two dirty kids. It'd be easier to finish Fate's job and just kill them all.

"Ah, Dustfinger…"

"Hey, buddy?"

The Prince jumped and scurried to his friend's side. "Buddy, when'd you get so hairy 'n stuff?" said Dustfinger as he, eyes closed, felt along the bear's side.

"Dustfinger!" The Prince hugged his friend so hard, so long, and none of them, not even the bear, knew who was laughing, who was crying, or who was clapping with joy.

Dustfinger felt along his friends face with a worried smile. "You're not hurt too bad are you?"

"No! Believe it or not, most of that blood is not even my blood! But what about you?"

Dustfinger winced. "A few broken ribs, that's all. I'll live." Suddenly Dustfinger noticed the bear and looked at it without much good will.

"What's he doing here? Get rid of it, go on! He's caused enough trouble!" Dustfinger threw a stone at the bear who retreated with a pained roar. The Prince yanked back his arm before he could throw another one.

"No! Dustfinger! He saved me! The bear saved me!" Dustfinger didn't look convinced and continued to stare at the bear as though he wanted to hit it.

"Dustfinger! Dustfinger! Look at me. Look at me. That man was trying to kill me! He was trying to break my skull open with that glass bottle. And then…and then….I don't know. The bear lunged or something and everything went silent and, hey! Where is the man, anyway?"

They both stood up and looked around in alarm, ready to fight again if need me. I don't know who noticed it first. Maybe it was a simultaneous affair. Maybe Dustfinger noticed it first, being a boy who could see as well as feel when the fire of life is extinguished from ones soul and makes it cold. Maybe it was the young Prince who in his later years would be able to destinguish between a dead man who becomes pure from a man whose soul could never be washed. But they both knew it was there. In the corner lay a mass of flesh and red human whatnot. A blank eye, an opened mouth, lips, red, dirty hands. An ugly man where society wanted him. Anyway, they both noticed the him-become-it and both tried to, among other things, pretend that they were still children, that they had not aged by a thousand years that night, and that they did not understand death. The bear, the sweet, sweet bear, sensing their distraught lumbered in front of them and blocked their view with its bulk. There they all stood, two boys, one bear, frozen in confusion, longing, and want of a blank past and a detailed future.

What next?

The Prince was first to recover. "We should go," he said, his voice thick with change.

"Yeah, the guard's will be here soon," said a tired Dustfinger. Was it just a trick of the light or had his feature become darker, wearier, but childish all the same? He tried to get up and winced.

"I can't really walk. Do you think I could ride the bear?"

"Yeah,"

The Prince gave him a leg up and settled him on the grunting bear. Dustfinger sighed and stroked its furry neck. "A horse, yes, a carriage would have done, yes," young Dustfinger yawned, "But this will be fine."

"Go to sleep." The Prince said, smiling, "It's fine. You need it."

Dustfinger nodded and crouched over. The Prince could have sworn he had heard him whispering something in the bear's ear before going to sleep. He placed his palm on the bear's neck and felt the strong, sinuous muscled below the tough, taut skin as they walked along through the woods.

"Well, I don't know who should say thank you first. Me because you saved me or you because I saved you?" The bear grunted and The Prince petted its neck. "Actually, I think we're equal. Plus we can't say thank you yet. If you would like, I think we have a whole lifetime of adventures ahead of us. What should we call ourselves? The Black Boy and his Bear. No? The…..King and his Black Stallion? Naw. How about the…Prince….The Black Prince and his Bear Who Served a Lifetime Together. Do you like it?"

Up to today, The Prince always knew that his bear didn't speak his language, he always knew, but there were times like these, when no one else could intercept it, that The Prince knew they communicated with something stronger than mere words, something that was more like feeling…feeling and experience


	14. Elinor's Childhood

"Elinor?"

The little girl with the ugly horn-rimmed glasses and pale skin looked up.

"What are you reading?"

Somewhere outside the house there was a big garden. It was an ocean of green with islands of lavender bushes, froths of orange, apple, and lemon trees, waves of watermelon patches, and dots of grey stone as big as boulders if one had enough imagination. In this garden the wind swished and frolicked with the scents of peppermint, lavender, and other smells to confuddle the mind. In this garden birds the color of blue, red, and yellow gems flittered between bush and tree, tweeting their hearts out. Enclosed within a magnificently intricate black gate, in this garden there was an enchanted grey fountain of medium-size, spewing forth magical froth of sparkling blue and twinkling white. Two young, beautiful girls kicked up their skirts in this fountain, laughing, prancing from foot to foot, pretending to be pirates, swishing invisible swords, whipping their fair hair back and forth in the merry wind.

Elinor looked out the window into this big garden, only then noticing how dim and chilly it was inside the grey library, how distinctly lonely it was in comparison to that garden.

"Elinor?" Her father bent down, hands behind his back, and forced her to look into his grey eyes. She gently closed the book, stroked its spine, and held it close to her chest. This book was protection for her, it was an enticing pillow after a long days work, it was teddy bear, and it was a crumpled blanket that, no matter how many times you washed it, would bare the distinctive scent of home, of her, that was always comforting. It was what all books were to her; it was home.

"What?" She said stubbornly, hugging the books, staring at a spot right above her father's left knee.

"I would like to know what you're reading, please."

She was silent, stubborn. Her father sighed and squatted down, the floorboards beneath him creaking in a way that usually reminded Elinor of a warm welcome whenever she would open the library's vast doors and step inside. But now, under somebody else's feet, it sounded boring and old.

"You know, Elinor, certain books can have certain effects on a young lady's mind. That is, her mental state can be either disturbed or enlightened by what she reads. What I've hoped to have taught you is that being an effervescent reader means being responsible, too. You must know which books will benefit you and which books will, well, quite frankly, destroy you. For example," Her father got up and walked to a random bookcase. Elinor stared after him with malice; still clutching the book like her life depended on it. Her sister's laughter had died down long ago, their pirate game over; they now had obviously found a new game, one that included a lot of squealing and screaming. "Ah, here we are," her father, after much debating and murmuring, had pulled a book off the bookshelf and brought it to her. "_The North Introduction to Literature: Ninth Edition, _perfect reading for a young lady. Informative and poetic. I love it. Or you can read, ah, this," he pulled yet another book from its shelf, "_New Illustrated Columbia Encyclopedia_. Purely factual, purely good for you, trust me. And then you have books like this," another book was removed from its place; this time a dingy, broken shelf shoved behind the door, "_Rainbow Boys_. Tsk, tsk, gay literature. Your mother's book. Terrible, terrible reading for a young lady. Should be banned, I think. And then you have books like this," he snatched the book out of her arms so quickly that she let out a squeal and involuntarily drew up her legs to protect her face in case he should strike again.

"_Lolita_!" he held the book high above his head like some foreign medal and observed it with interest. He sighed, slightly panting, and looked at her, and in that moment, his look conveyed everything; disgust (at her,) pity, anger, and a certain distraught feeling that she, Elinor Loredan, was incapable of being more like her sisters.

"I think," he said, lowering the book, and leaning in closer to her face. Their noses, so similar, yet so different, almost collided, "I think, you'd do well to go outside and enjoy the sun, _like your sisters_, and to never come into my library again. Go. Now."

Two rock-hard heels landed on the cold library floor as Elinor jumped from the couch on which she had been sitting and drew herself up to her fullest height. Her cheeks were flushed with anger and livid on her pale white cheeks, and her little hands balled into fist. Her dull green glasses slipped from her face as she screamed, in her loudest voice, "I…WILL….NEVER…..BE LIKE MY SISTERS!"

The glasses fell to the floor with a forlorn clatter and Elinor, squinting, stooped on hands and knees to find them, but just as her fingertips brushed the ends of the plastic rungs her father stuck out his foot and the glasses went skittering into a dusty corner. He laughed, its big-bellied sound echoing throughout the library while somewhere down in the garden the sisters laughed too, sensing their fathers delight. Elinor snatched up her glasses and ran out the door of the library, stopping once to look at the gold plaque stuck neatly on the door: EDGAR M. LOREDAN'S PERSONAL LIBRARY. STAY OUT! On the corner on bottom of the plaque one of her sister's had drawn a balloon-headed stick figure with wiry hair and large green glasses. Above the stick-figure's right arm clutching a perfect square representing a book, a thin arrow went from the figure's right ear to the N in the neatly scribbled word ELINOR. The rude picture was of her. Of all these years it had never been erased from that plaque. Elinor hastily scratched the tears from her face and sniffed loudly. Outside her sister's laughing had stopped and now a haunting but beautiful melody filled the air as each of the young women in the garden raised their angelic voices in a song that wafted through the breeze, flew to the sun, and dispersed within the glistening clouds.

"_Oh, Monica, you know that I am no native to love. I come from a land where the moon sometimes dwells in the daylight, a land where the air is tinted with smoke, a land where the women are bleached and are 92% silicon and 8% flesh-"_

_Monica giggled, brown dimples popping onto the sides of her lips like magic. "Why, Bill, you come from the same place as I! America!"_

"_Exactly. America. Who's there to fall in love with except big-breasted bimbos with false body parts and stinkin' bad tempers? They're all the same!"_

"_Bill!" _

"_It's true! So you can imagine my surprise when I met a girl who was so…different from them all. So beautiful, so perfect in her own way. Her skin was naturally the color of sweet mocha, she smelled of fresh spring grass and she had….the most perfect dimples…."_

_Monica smiled and looked down. _Elinor? _She felt that if she could ever blush now would be that time. Her hands came together and her heart began to beat louder than ever. The moon, on her cheeks, felt both hot and cold, and she could feel him looking at her looking at him through thick, black eyelashes. _Elinor!

"_Christina."_

"_Excuse me?" _ELINOR! _Monica jerked her head up and looked at him in surprise. Had she heard him right?_

'_Yes," Bill looked up at the moon with a dreamy expression on his _**ELINOR! **_ face. "I'm in love with her, Monica! Christina, ma belle, the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen! Skin like mocha, breath like spring grass, dimples like magic, oh, Christina is so beautiful."_

_Monica looked at him, pain melting her features. "Bill, I-" _I love you, Bill_, she wanted to say, _I thought you loved me, too._ But she could see that he was not listening to her, far away as he was in the land of daydreams where he and Christina frolicked and giggled in the high spring grass.  
"Bill, I-" But there was nothing more to say. That was it. Her dreams had been shattered. There was no reason to live. There was no reason for him to live, either. _Watch, class, watch this. You see how Miss Elinor has chosen not to pay attention today? _Slowly Monica steadied herself as Bill ranted on about this and that the merits of Christina the Wonderful. With utmost skill she manifested a wicked SkyBlue-X from Planet 13 Lavender, an outdated weapon but it would do. Slowly she raised the weapo_Watch this class, this aught to wake her up,_n to eye level, aimed it at the back of Bill's head, took in a deep breath, pulled the trigger, and BA-_

"**ELINOR!**"

A loud _crack_ echoed across the room as a flimsy wooden ruler connected harshly with tender skin. Elinor gave a start and clutched at her throbbing hand. "Ow! What the hell, Mrs. Robertson?"

"Don't you 'What the hell' me, Loredan. If it were up to me you'd be carted out of this school and off to a Juvenile Delinquent Prison before you could spell 'Marco, Pollo.' What's this?" Mrs. Robertson pointed to Elinor's opened desktop, using the ruler in her hand like spear-headed baton or a fiery, fizzling wand.

"Nothing," Elinor murmured and shut her desktop, but Mrs. Robertson was too fast. Her hand shot out and snatched up the open book partially hidden underneath Elinor's coat. "Reading in class again, are you?" Mrs. Robertson held the book at arms length and flipped her red corkscrew hair, a move that sent the young boys in the class reeling. "_The Adventures of Monica Jake and Bill Cabertson_. Not exactly the required reading, is it, Loredan?"

"No," Elinor murmured, sinking into her seat. She could feel hot tears began to sting her cheeks and felt ashamed to be found crying in front of the whole class. The boys began to snicker and whisper and what was worse was that her sisters, the undisputed female leaders of the school, were shaking their heads in a way that meant Elinor-you-silly-girl-what-will-we-ever-do-with-you? Mrs. Robertson sucked in the corner of her blindingly bright ruby red bottom lip (another move that sent the boys reeling) and looked at Elinor with, what was it? Pity.

"Detention, Loredan. You may have this back at the end of class." Mrs. Robertson waved the book over her head and turned away. "All right, class," Mrs. Robertson velvet skirt was a bit too tight and it clung to her butt as she walked. It made her look like some gorgeous super model. Once again in her life, young Elinor was disgusted by something that fascinated everybody else around her.

"Hey, Loredan! Let me tell you a story!"

"Go away, AnFibio!" Elinor crossed her arms tighter over her breasts and focused her gaze on the hard, crunching snow beneath her feet, hoping that the boys would just…go away.

"Ah, but I thought you liked stories?" AnFibio jogged to keep up with her, grinning, as his sniggering band of motley idiots tagged along behind them.

"I do, I love stories! Stories in books are wonderful and amazing and beautiful. They can take you anywhere in the comfort of your own home…but I rather not hear them out of your smelly, dirty, unshaven mouth."

The crowd behind them gave a melodramatic "Ooh," that, for a minute, made young Elinor feel triumphant, but that ended all too soon when AnFibio, after running two fingers over his bristly upper lip, shoved her into the side of Classroom A. Panicking, Elinor crawled away from him, searching as she did for her glasses, remembering all to well who had caused their current crack. These were the times when Elinor wished she could…just draw her knees up to her chin and close her eyes and maybe remember a passage from one of her favorite books. The kids would laugh and jeer at her and maybe even throw a snowball at her unguarded face, but at least she would be home in a passage of her favorite book.

But Elinor Loredan was stronger than that.

She picked herself up, flipped her sort, dirty hair, and stalked away with a carefree expression on her face. But it wasn't long before AnFibio caught up.

"_Once upon a time there was an ugly, foul, creature name Nerdidan and she was a nerd_," he began. The ugly boys in his Motley Crew howled and the pretty girls giggled behind heavily lip-glossed lips and pretty little hands. Oh, how she wanted to scratch those smiles off their lips! "_Nerdidan was so nerdy and she had no life and she had no friends except for the imaginary friends that she said came from books because she was stupid and didn't know that they weren't real. Nerdidan was such a nerd that she practically ate books (it was this diet that made her so unhealthy, see!) She ate 'em, she took baths in 'em, she even had her father fuck her with 'em, but she was so ugly and smelly that the books just took one look at her and burned into-_" Elinor turned on him like a whip.

"You're an idiotic, illiterate fool Anfibio Depache and I feel sorry for you!" Tears running down her face, her voice quivering, she looked him straight in the eye and continued, "I feel sorry that the world will have to deal with another ridiculous little monkey with no appreciation for books or anything as worthy! I feel sorry! I feel sorry, Depache, that your mother doesn't have enough money to keep you in this school and will be moving you and your brothers out next year. I feel sorry for the pain you're going through and I feel sorry for the next children that you will take it out on and ruin their lives."

It was quite in the schoolyard. The branches rustled awkwardly and the children looked on with bated breath. Everything became eerily silent and watchful as Elinor sniffed and wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go serve detention-"

"How did you know about my mother?"

Long ago, Elinor had loved Depache. She still did, actually, ever since that first day in elementary school where he had first asked her to clarify a passage in _Island of the Blue Dolphins._ It was fine then. AnFibio was a kind boy, always asking to help carry the teacher's boxes of dusty year old art to the next room and Elinor was just a shy, quiet girl. It was okay for them to be friends, then. She could even remember when, once, they had shared a stale box of Oreo cookies under the subconscious standard "Someone wanna help me finish these?" uttered from his even then bristly 11year old mouth. The smiles they had shared during recess. The casual, look-over-the-shoulder "Whacha readin'?" muffled by loud, snapping bubble gum, followed by distracted, baseball-just-flew-by "Oh," upon receiving a giggly, shy answer. Tackily fixing her pencil with yellowed, twisting scotch tape. Handing her markers in Art Room B. And then there were the years where he grew up and unfortunately she still loved him. When she wasn't actually reading during lunch she was watching him from over the top of the page. Usually he was torturing some nine year old or smoking cigarettes with his sickly skinny girlfriend (at the time it was Mercedes) or usually just laughing with his friends near some shiny, sporty car (that never was his,) but all the same she loved him. All those years, hoping he would come back and fearing that he actually would.

He hit her. Hard.

She flew to the ground, the back of her head hitting a concrete step with a loud _thunk_, her palms skidding on the crunching snow and beginning to show small flecks of blood beneath dirt-ingrained snow and skin.

"What was that for?" she screamed, feeling worriedly at her stiff, frozen palms.

"You meddle in things you aught not meddle with, nerd!" He kicked her and this time her hat flew off. "And this time I'm gonna hafta teach you a lesson about mindin' your own damn business!"

She only just managed to escape, leaving behind her hat, her glasses, her backpack, and a good portion of her torn clothes. It was the least she could do to keep those boys' meaty hands off of her. Panting, she dashed into classroom 7B and leaned against the doorframe, clutching her aching arm. She had landed on it when AnFibio hit her. She heard laughter and peered out of the frosty, dirty window. The Motley Crew was laughing as they dumped her schoolwork and pencils out of her back pack and onto the dirty snow. AnFibio laughed, watching, and then turned to give one of the girls a long kiss, as if the physical excursion of beating up a young girl had also woken up his appetite for lovemaking, as disgusting as it was. (He was later to become one of the many dark, dark henchmen to a most notorious man who would later on be known as Capricorn. The girl, through a series of unfortunate events would become his ill-fated, pathetic wife and maid to the Fire-Lord mentioned above, but Elinor was not to know that.)

"Loredan? Are you here for your detention?"

Mrs. Robertson leaned out of the doorway of one of the classrooms and gave Elinor a quizzical look.

"Yeah," Elinor said, shrugging her shoulders. And then, pissed off at Mrs. Robertson lack of concern for an injured child, said, "Guess what, Mrs. Robertson? I got beat up today!"

"Oh, I seriously doubt that. You probably just ran into a tree while reading one of those ridiculous books of yours."

"Oh, much in the same fashion that you just happened to _stumble_ in Professor Allan Smith's silicone office and came out looking like Barbie?" Elinor retorted, following Mrs. Robertson's finely sculpted back. She didn't even bother to turn around when she said, "Detention!" in a sharp voice and sat down at her desk. Elinor sat in the one lone chair adjacent. Smiling, Mrs. Robertson slid a well-worn, dusty paperback across the desk. Her cat-like claws glistened blood-red in the fluorescent light.

"_The Adventures of Monica Jake and Bill Cabertson_. Read a few passages myself. Couldn't help being reminded of my old love and past adventures and excitements…" Mrs. Robertson rested her face upon her palm and looked dreamily up into the ceiling. "His name was Billy Marcus and I had met him in Texas while on a tour of schools around the world…"

Elinor took the book and resisted the temptation to peek into its pages as Mrs. Robertson ranted on about something or the other that somehow included fighting giant, man-eating scorpions; handsome, vine-swinging men; and Mrs. Robertson in a light, baby blue belly-dancing costume while dancing her way across the desert sand. Elinor felt her eyes start to close.

"-all I'm saying, Elinor, is that you have potential." Elinor gave a start when Mrs. Robertson unexpectedly plopped down on the desk in front of her. She gave Elinor a pitying smile and removed the lime-green glasses from her face. "You have a beautiful family," she said in a soft, pitying voice that Elinor had never heard her use before, "You have two beautiful sisters, a beautiful mother, and a smart, intellectual father. Greatness is in your genes, Elinor. All you have to do is let go of this." She picked up _The Adventures of Monica Jake and Bill Cabertson_ and let it drop with a pitiful _thump_.

Dinner that night was the same as always. No one had anything to say about Elinor's bruised face when she brought it up, except the usual:

"Elinor, dear, you should really stop getting into these little squabbles with your friends,"

"You need to stop getting into these little squabbles in general, dear. Look at your face!"

"It could have a long-term effect on her mental state-"

"-and physical state."

"I don't think that her physical state can be changed! Not to mention it's very un-lady like to fight, dear!"

If her sister's called her 'dear' one more time she would kill someone. Literally, kill someone. She watched her elder sister, Maryanne, cut her steak with utmost precision and grace, her chocolate-brown curls still and silky as if she had just walked out from a Vogue magazine. Her other sister, Melissa, watched her while daintily taking a sip from glass.

"Mother," Melissa said, averting her gaze, "You really shouldn't read at the dinner table."

"It's impolite."

The woman who looked up was neither pretty nor ugly, young nor old. She was just a plain woman with hastily pinned up hair and pretty beaded glasses. She didn't respond to her daughters' criticism but merely shoveled another forkful of string beans in her mouth. Elinor guiltily closed the book of which she had been reading under the table and, feeling the need to justify her mother, said, "You shouldn't be high-strung bitches. It's impolite."

Her sisters gasped and looked at each other with melodramatic surprised expressions. Her mother cast her a quick smile and went to answer the age-old telephone on the wall.

"E-elinor! How dare you!" Maryanne said.

"You absolutely vile little girl!" continued Melissa.

"How dare you use that word in this house?"

"You deserve….to be punished!"

"You deserve to be put in detention for a week!"

"Speaking of which," Melissa flipped her sparkling blonde curls and slid her teeth over the prongs of her fork, "Did you serve detention with Mrs. Robertson?"

"Ooh," Maryanne giggled and flashed a glance at her sister, "Mrs. Robertson is so beautiful!"

"And so…polite!"

"And so…elegant,"

"And so….pretty,"

"Your father's dead."

The three girls looked up at their mother. She looked so lost standing there with the phone clutched in her hand and her mouth hanging open in a chapped, pink 'oh.' She shook her head. "He died…of a stroke…at that…book auction that he went to this morning." Her voice quavered, and she slid down onto the kitchen tile floor, covering as she did so her silent lips.

Elinor got up and wiped her lips with a napkin. Her sister's began to cry into each others' shoulder and her mother began to cry into her hands, but Elinor didn't feel like crying. She had something that she'd rather do instead.

She found herself at the top of the steps in front of her father's library. She ran her hand over the wire-glasses stick figure on the plaque and the grand oak doors. When she opened them and stepped inside the floor creaked welcomingly. The cold, draft air was comforting and already she could hear the books calling to her from all sides. She knew where he had hid _Lolita_. She even had the key to the dusty, hidden cabinet behind the door.

"He left a will you know," her mother was standing at the door, watching her stroke the spine of her favorite book. "You inherited half of his books."

"Uh-huh," Elinor said and although her heart felt only the tiniest bit of remorse her mind was already on the vast thousands of books (previously restricted) just waiting to be read.


	15. When Basta Kidnapped Darius

Author's note: Done upon request. I decided that I am taking requests now because…it's kind of fun seeing what Inkheart fans like nowadays. If you have a special request let me know and I'll give it a shot. Also, I found out right as I finished the chapter that this was supposed to take place at a birthday party but…you know, we're all flexible people sooooooo enjoy!

"Alfonso! Alfonso! C'mere!"

"Why? What is it?"

"There's a man reading in the square, it's really cool! Come on!"

The young boy dropped the stick that he had been using to poke at a line of ants and ran after his friend. It was a sensationally hot day in Italy and women laden with bulging shopping bags hissed impatiently at the two boys as they nimbly wound their way around the people's legs. Finally, they reached the piazza where a large group of people had gathered around the porch of a pretty little outdoor café. The boys pushed and shoved until they were at the front of the group and there they sat crossed–legged (and instantly spell-bound) amongst a bunch of other little kids.

"Wow," someone whispered.

There, in the midst of all the smiling, entranced people sat a man with a book in his lap. He was an ordinary man; perhaps his trousers rode a bit too high over his ankles and the parting of his hair was a bit crooked but his voice…oh, his voice! If ever there was a voice to rival his! Words slipped and slid from his tongue like a gentle snake; they sprouted wings and soared from his lips as a powerful creature of the sky; they hovered still, they frolicked sprightly, they played bashfully above the heads of the listening audience in such a soothing, lively fashion that the people felt that all they had to do was reach up and pluck one, two letters from the sky and cradle them, still glowing, still shining, in their palms.

The man was reading.

With a gentle, almost shy voice he told the audience of the story Dr. Doolittle's friend, Polynesia the parrot, and how she taught him the language of the animals.

"'_Oh, there are plenty of animal–doctors,' said John Dolittle, putting the flower–pots outside on the window–sill to get the rain. _

'_Yes, there ARE plenty,' said Polynesia. 'But none of them are any good at all. Now listen, Doctor, and I'll tell you something. Did you know that animals can talk?'_

'_I knew that parrots can talk,' said the Doctor._

'_Oh, we parrots can talk in two languages—people's language and bird–language,' said Polynesia proudly. 'If I say, 'Polly wants a cracker,' you understand me. But hear this:_" here he stopped and imitated a shrill bird sound that made the young children in the audience grin,"_'Ka–ka oi–ee, fee–fee?'_

'_Good Gracious!' cried the Doctor. 'What does that mean?'_"

So vividly the story was told that it almost seemed like Polynesia was there flying around their heads or maybe perching proudly on the branch of a nearby olive…wait….

The reader froze. A sudden commotion had broken out beneath the trees surrounding the square. Everybody stopped to look as man in a black jacket shouted and cursed in his loudest voice as a grey parrot flew around his head. Perhaps the reader was the only one that noticed that the bird had brilliant grey plumage that sparkled like the silvers of a rainstorm and a pair of intelligent eyes surrounded by snow-white down. The bird peered around at its surroundings wildly, as if confused by something, before settling into a branch above the man's head. Could it be? Was this the bird from Hugh Lofting's novel? She was certainly beautiful enough. But…_no, no, _the man thought_, this is crazy. Nobody can read things out of a book. That's insane! _But he had never heard of an African Grey Parrots living in Italy…

"Mister," a young girl with big brown eyes and a headful of angelic curls tugged at his jacket sleeve as people turned their attention back to him, "are you going to continue the story?" He smiled at her.

"Yes, where was I? Oh yes, Dr. Doolittle's parrot. _'Good gracious,' cried the doctor_'…"

oOoOo

Basta had not been well as of late.

A group of Capricorn's men had bent sent to _quiet_ a certain business man who had been showing signs of discontent towards his upcoming payment to Capricorn. As it happened, the men that had been sent on the mission had become sidetracked by an impressive female in need of a few capable hands. The business man, having been alerted to their coming, fled into the safety of police protection while Capricorn's men were busy doing side jobs for the woman. The mission had failed and now the police were on their tracks.

Needless to say, Capricorn was pissed.

Normally Basta would not have spared a thought towards the affairs of Capricorn's wayward, unruly henchmen and the trouble that they usually got into save for the usual telling off and punishments, but this time had been particularly bad seeing as he had been the one in charge of the operation.

"_I don't like it when people mishandle simple operations, Basta_," Capricorn had said quietly, inspecting his fingernails, "_at least not on my account. It seems to be compulsory in this world for men to act foolishly but when working under me I expect them to do the job in a manner that exceeds their capabilities. You will be held personally responsible for their actions. You are dismissed_."

Arms crossed, back against the cool bark of a tree, Basta closed his eyes and clenched his teeth at the thought of so painful a telling off. He had left the village under the muttered excuse of needing to find a new supplier for their stocks of gasoline but instead had come here to get his thoughts together. Across from him, a bespeckled little man was reading for a group of people. Basta paused and listened with interest. _Well, what a nice voice_, he thought to himself, _perhaps I should give him to Capricorn to read aloud the daily announcements._

'_Oh, we parrots can talk in two languages—people's language and bird–language,' said Polynesia proudly. 'If I say, 'Polly wants a cracker,' you understand me. But hear this: Ka–ka oi–ee, fee–fee?'_

'_Good Gracious!' cried the Doctor. 'What does that mean?'"_

As much as he tried to fight it, Basta felt a certain sense of contentment envelope him like a warm blanket. The man's voice drifted over to him: smooth, relaxing, enticing. Like a violet ribbon frolicking in the wind it pranced around him and glided across his skin, giving him goose bumps.

_Perhaps Capricorn might just forget about the recent events of this week, with this man around_, Basta nodded sleepily, _perhaps, perhaps…_

Suddenly, a bird appeared out of nowhere and flew straight at him. Basta gave a shout of disappointment and cursed the worse curses he knew as the bird flew around his head in anxious, scared circles. Blindly, he slashed about with his knife only to wave aside cascading feathers and make a rather amusing spectacle of himself in public. Temporarily distracted from the man's reading, the people turned and looked at Basta with annoyance mingled with suspicion. Deeply embarrassed he scowled back at them until, quiet confused, they turned their attention back to the reader.

"Ka-ka ko efi?"

Basta glared at the frightened pigeon, which by now had settled on a nearby branch. "Go away, shoo!"

"Ka-ra ko-ef ee-ka?"

"I said get, you!" he waved his arms impatiently at the bird.

"_Ka–ka oi–ee, fee–fee_?"

"All right, that's i- " he paused and stared at the bird in disbelief.

"'_Oh, we parrots can talk in two languages—people's language and bird–language,' said Polynesia proudly. 'If I say, 'Polly wants a cracker,' you understand me. But hear this: Ka–ka oi–ee, fee–fee?'"_

"Well, I'll be damned…" there was no mistaking it. It was the African Grey from the book that the man had been reading out loud. There was no mistaking the distinct cry and human demeanor that this bird displayed. Basta looked back at the man, a small smile growing on his face. "Oh, Capricorn will be pleased."

OoOoO

Humming contently, Darius climbed the stairs leading to his sister's house and stood awhile at the small porch, gazing into the distance. The sun was setting now, creating a majestic, orange glow above the treetops that separated him from square where he had read so vividly that morning. He couldn't help but admit to himself that he truly was…the greatest reader on this earth. Though he would never say it out loud himself, no matter how many times people told him that it was true.

"_Mio fratello_, I was worried about you. You never call when you're out there in the square. What if something happens to you? I wouldn't know, eh?" His sister, a big-bodied woman with a red palms and flushed cheeks stood in the doorway, her thick form filling up the whole frame.

"Melissa, I was reading. I couldn't call! It would've disrupted the flow if I had stopped every now and then to think about calling you or picking up dinner or…oh, no."

"You forgot to pick up the ham and cheese for dinner, I know," she smiled patiently at him as she wiped her hand graciously on the front of her robe, "I took the liberty of having it delivered as soon as you left."

"I'm sorry. But listen! This time, in the square, I was reading a passage from _Dr. Doolittle_ and I'm prepared to swear that the parrot, Polynesia actually came out of the book! I would never tell anybody else this but she just appeared out of nowhere and started flying around the head of a man –"

"Hold on, who is that?"

A dusty black sedan suddenly appeared and was inching its way forward into the drive away. A man with narrow shoulders and a red rose in his buttonhole stepped out and surveyed the cluttered, weed-ridden lawn with distaste.

"Th-that's him, Melissa. The…the...the man from the square," Why was he stuttering? He never stuttered! But there was something about this man, a distinctly mean aura, ruthlessness in the demeanor that frightened him so that he found his throat constricting in fear. Melissa was not fazed. "Who are you, then," she shouted, "Tax collector? Well, I've paid my taxes!" But the man ignored her and stomped towards Darius with glinting sunglasses. The two siblings yelled in surprise as the man yanked Darius by his arm and began to frog-march him off of the porch and towards his car. Melissa let out a storm of bad language and ran towards the man, brandishing her fist but with a cool eye Basta turned to her and snickered. "Have you ever heard the name Capricorn?" The woman froze and stared at him in fear, her face turning a pallid grey.

"His men came here a few weeks ago and demanded that half of my business products be given exclusively to them," she stuttered. Basta smiled wider.

"Unless you want another visit, much less friendly this time, I assure you, I suggest that you keep quiet and go back inside."

"Oh, please don't hurt my brother! My god, he just came here from America! Please, he's new here –" But with another chilling smirk Basta shoved the man in the backseat, got in the car, and began to drive away with her brother squirming fearfully in the backseat.

oOoOo

Darius sat up slowly, watching the man in the front seat with wary eyes. His head throbbed painfully from the forceful impact with the seat and his vision swam and faded in and out. He suddenly noticed a certain wetness on his sleeve and grabbed at his arm, expecting to find a wound of some sort, but there was nothing.

"What…"

He touched his sleeve again and found something sticking to it this time. Feathers. Grey feathers. Mortified, his eyes slowly traveled to the seat where a small bird lay dead upon its cushions. An African Grey, to be exact. He must've fallen onto it when he was shoved in the backseat.

"Wh…wh…wh…what is this?"

"That," Basta glanced at him in the rearview mirror, "is the bird that you read out of that book this morning."

"P-polynesia? Y…you k, um, murdered the bird?" Basta gave a raucous laugh that made him jump.

"Murder? It was just a bird! But you had better stop that stuttering nonsense right now. If you so much as a slur in Capricorn's presence I will decorate your face with a few pretty patterns with my knife." But Darius hadn't heard the last comment. A thought had suddenly occurred to him. "I…I read something out of a b-book. My voice brought the bird here; into this world…heavens...heavens….w-where are you taking me." Basta laughed again.

"You, Silvertongue, are going to meet Capricorn: your new master."


	16. He Tried to Ingratiate Himself with Them

If there was ever a woman more spectacular than Lucinda then he would swallow his knife.

Literally.

Now, that's not to say that Capricorn's village didn't have its fair share of pretty maids. The young Italian women that they kidnapped from nearby villages were just so magical in their shy, mysterious ways. Sure, during their first few days in the village when their wrist still bore signs of duct tape, their eyes were red and puffy from crying, and their voices were hoarse from all the screaming and cursing they were a terrible discomfort to be near but as they grew to accept their new life and the ways of the village they, with their lowered gazes and timid (though, at times, a bit fiery) tones, became just so charming and surreal in Basta's eyes. But Lucinda…with her wicked defiant eyes, black hair like dripping obsidian, and commanding presence Lucinda was the most surreal that a human being could get.

All of these thoughts passed through his head as he watched her and a group of maids congregate near the entrance to Capricorn's garden, laughing, with baskets filled with either clothing or vegetables balanced gracefully on their hips. A young man, Ricky by name, was currently trying his luck with the patient women. Basta smirked. Ricky was the newest addition to their Black Jacket clan; young, dyed blond hair, and already with an annoyingly cocky attitude Ricky wasn't going to get anywhere with any of those women any time soon. Basta could do better, he was sure.

Or could he?

Something kept nagging at the back of his mind, a little voice that sounded a lot like Dustfinger's. _You've never gotten anywhere with a woman…never… never…never…Roxanne turned you down for me; a raggedy little fire-breathing vagabond. _ He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of that awful thought that often slithered into his head like a scalding poison whenever he thought of women. He was Capricorn's best man; surely Lucinda would fall for _that_ title.

With a quick glance at himself in his hallway mirror (he inwardly cringed; he still had that tired, slightly-annoyed look that seemed to have become his permanent mask) he threw on his black jacket and exited the house. The sound of the women's voices floated to him like a delicious bakery scent riding the wind; now climbing into a high-pitched laugh, now dipping into a low whisper, everything being said simmering with girlish seduction occasionally broken by the sound of Ricky's boyish drawl.

"Don't you have something to do?"

Ricky froze. They all froze and looked up into the face of a tired, slightly-annoyed looking man. Although he was short in stature his very being, his very aurora seemed to block out the sun. He sneered down at the wide-eyed Ricky. "S-someone," he stuttered defiantly although (unbeknownst to everyone except for Basta) on the inside he cringed with fear, "for sure, something, perhaps, too." The women laughed awkwardly. Basta sneered.

"I believe you're supposed to be at your post, not fantasizing about something that will never happen. Now go do your job before my knife gets a taste of your worthless blood!" He hissed the last part so menacingly that Ricky, quite startled, jumped and hurriedly scurried away. Basta gave an inward sigh of relief and turned.

"Lucinda,"

"Basta," god, her smile was gorgeous; side-swept like her hair (which, he noticed with delight, was as black as her obsidian eyes) and confident. "What do you want?"

"I think you know."

The women snickered and gasped behind their hands while simultaneously taking weary steps back. This was not their show. Lucinda, however, dropped her hands on her hips and her smile, along with his confidence, began to slip away. "I use to have a husband. You know how he wooed me? He didn't tell me I was beautiful until the second month. 'I was focused on other things,' he said. You know what the difference between you and him is?" she cooed.

Think, think, think quick. He could practically see Cockerell's face looming before his, laughing raccaciously. _You've never gotten anywhere with a woman…never…never…never…_

"Well, for one, he wasn't, ah, _slow_," her eyes glittered ferociously, " if you get my drift and he didn't imply that he wanted to sleep with me as soon as he set eyes on me."

"Ah, but I can't wait for your love," Basta said coolly, "I don't want to fret around for two months pretending that you are not beautiful just so that I may seem _fanciful_."

"Oh! Now it's love you want," she cried, throwing her caramel-tan arms up in the air. At the sound of her teasing voice the inhabitants of nearby houses poked their heads out of dilapidated windows, tousle-haired, curious. Upon seeing Basta struggling with the fiery Italian woman they chuckled, shook their heads, and withdrew into their rooms. Uncomfortable with the attention, Basta hunched his shoulders and looked at his boots. Unconsciously, he began to stroke the knife in his pocket. The other women had long since vanished, thank goodness.

"You know, I think you're just desperate," she said, readjusting the things in her basket.

"And I think you're just playing hard to get."

"What, to attract _you_?"

"Well, everybody because you, princess, think you're so great."

"And you, Capricorn's Best Croony, are going to stay just that. Never anything more."

Basta glared at her in silence. Who has she? More importantly, how dare she?! Now, as he watched her oscillate lazily with the wind, she ceased to be a thing of beauty but instead became a nasty, fork-toothed devil with an attitude. Seriously, did she know who she was talking to? Blood pulsing fire, he drew his knife and pushed her, gasping, against the sun baked cement wall.

"Listen here, you wench," her eyes widened and with every struggling gasp she took she inhaled a mouthful of (of all things!) peppermint. She watched her own reflection in his flashing eyes, "You think you can come into this village and disrespect me just because you're currently Capricorn's favorite? Well, let me tell you, girly, one day he will get tired of you and cast you aside like an ugly little doll. And when he does," here he drew his knife gently, lovingly across the bridge of her nose, "I will be right here and you'll be sorry that those words ever left your pretty little mouth." Noticing her discomfort, he blew a stream of minty air across her nose and smiled nastily, "See you around, Princess."

With a final shove he turned on his heel and stalked away, knife still in hand. Lucinda watched him slowly disappear into the twisting maze that was Capricorn's village. Perhaps…perhaps she had underestimated him. Perhaps spoken too soon? Was there ever really a right way to speak to that man? She put a hand to her throat.

"Lucinda! Lucinda," the maids from before suddenly appeared from the building opposite her and swarmed her with eager, knowing smiles "Did you? Did you do it? Did you totally dominate him? Lucinda! Lucinda!" She closed her eyes and silenced them with a weary gesture.

"No," she muttered, thinking of the man with a red rose in his button, "no one can dominate him."

Author's Note: Ooh, Lucinda's a bit of a Mary-Sue, isn't she? *rowr* I actually kind of like her. Anyway, thanks for your request, guys and girls! I love 'em! Also, this story is going through an editing process, so any errors that you may have seen in the earlier chapters will be fixed soon, I promise


	17. Author's Note

Author's Note: Hey everybody! So sorry for the delay in the updates! Do not fret; I haven't stopped writing this story. Truthfully, I've just been lacking time, inspiration, and sweet things to eat in my cabinets, but alas! I have a long weekend up ahead and I plan to just write my head off and blow your minds with really sexyawesomesexy chapters along with two new stories. So hang in there, baby. I'm thinking Friday I'll post all new updates to my stories.


	18. When Basta met Roxanne

_Even the Adderhead used to invite her to his castle, poorly as he thought of the Motley Folk, for in those days everyone had wanted to hear her sing. Rich traders, the miller down by the river, the spice merchant who had sent her presents for more than a year…so many men had wanted to marry her, had given her jewelry and costly dresses, offered her fine apartments in their house…_

Everyone had wanted to marry Roxanne, and tonight was certainly no different.

She stood nervously behind the curtains of a luxurious stage, absentmindedly running one hand through her long black hair. The Adderhead was throwing another one of his lavish parties for the rich business men of the village and of course, he had begged her to come by way of a bored looking, nasally guard. She didn't really want to be here. The only reason why she came in the first place was to admire the spiraling architecture of the castle and, when no one was looking, slip into the royal gardens where she could feast her eyes on the many shapes and colors of the surreal plants that grew there and inhale the sweet fragrances that always reminded her of a foreign world far away where things were a little bit more peaceful. Gently, she brushed the curtain aside and surveyed the rowdy audience. As usual, there were mostly men there and they were all drunk on the Adderhead's wine. There was Anfibio, the man who proposed to her every year. Was that another wedding ring that he was holding in his shaking hand? There was Taris, laughing whole-heartedly at a joke told by one of the silk merchants. Roxanne smiled. Taris was a handsome and good-natured man but still, she knew that he had the Adderhead's ear, and that made her uncomfortable. There was Strongarm, a wealthy entertainer; Erinn, a shy albeit determined young man who had only recently tried to win her hand; Newtbreath, Tildrinne, Alan, and...

She gasped when her eyes met those of one man in particular. With skin pale as milk, boots that flashed silver in the fading light, and eyes as cold and dead as a fish, he sat to the right of the Adderhead with a slight smirk on his (surprisingly) effeminate slips. When he saw her he raised his eyebrow ever so slightly and then turned to address the Adderhead as if he had not seen her. She sighed and shivered a little. She did not like that man. Behind him, with tables covered with heavily-spiced meats and goblets full of honey-sweetened wine, sat tired looking men in black suits. One of them had his head resting lazily on his palm and, as if sensing her gaze, slowly looked up until they were staring straight at each other.

"Oh," she said quietly, putting a hand to her heart. The man was handsome, there was no denying. He still held something of a youth-like nonchalance even though he must've been a little bit older than her. Even the blade in his hand which he had been using to carve notches in the table did not quell the growing sense of, she dare think it, _love_ that she began to feel for him.

"Excuse me," she said to a passing maid, "Who is that man?"

"Tha wud be Capricorn, miss, and 'is Fire Raisers. A nasty pack o' dawgs, I'll tell ya tha," Capricorn and his Fire Raiser. She had heard the name somewhere before. The accompanying stories that came with it were never really pretty.

"And who is that man behind him?"

"Oh, miss," the maid looked distastefully at the man who she was pointing to. He had ceased to look at Roxanne and was now looking sleepily at his blade, although she noticed that his eyes darted in her direction every few seconds. "Tha be Basta, tha is. The nastiest one o' dem all. Mah 'usband lost a finga ta 'im, 'e did. Oop, looks like you're on, miss."

What she said was true. The Adderhead began to bang his fork against his glass, signaling to everyone that they should be silent and that the entertainment of the evening should start. Before Roxanne could protest, the maid shoved her onto the stage and she stumbled quite gracefully into the center of attention. There was anxious laughter. She cleared her throat, once, twice, looked defiantly at the Adderhead, and began to sing.

_The lady with the fair blonde hair_

_Her charm and wit is of no use here_

_And through these lands she travels alone _

_Her spirits crushed, with broken bones_

She paused and took a breath in, glancing at the man at the table. He had dropped his knife and lifted his head from his hands, now looking at her as if nothing else in the room existed. She continued.

_Her father, brother, and mother have searched_

_Her valiant lover has ridden into the night_

_Her name and honor, now besmirched_

_The child has given up the fight._

_The devil is proud to have a wife who is as beautiful and she_

_He feeds her life and cinnamon and sadness with her tea_

_But she will never leave, she won't; she will never leave this place_

_The woman with her faded hair and ugly, wrinkled face_

She hung onto to the last note a little bit longer than necessary. As a mother feared letting her child ride off into the world, Roxanne feared parting with the last word in her favorite song and the sorrow that came with knowing that, even though she could sing it a million times, she'd never be able to sing it in the exact same way that she had sung it that evening. But finally, she let go and gasped into the silence. There was a pause in which everyone in the room stared up at her with wide-eyes and opened mouths. Then suddenly, as if violently roused from his daze, the man at the table began clapping enthusiastically and the people around him followed suit. She curtsied stiffly and hurried off into the corridor. Perhaps while everyone was still busy taking their last sips of wine and talking excitedly about her singing she could slip off and see the garden now. She raised her skirts above her ankle and began to tip toe faster, but right as she turned the corner she ran into someone.

"Well, well, well. Where are you off to, then?"

It was the man from the table. She cleared her throat and composed herself, mentally taking note of her tousled hair and sweaty neck. "That's really none of your business," she said dangerously, or rather, flirtatiously. He smiled.

"Well, not mine, perhaps, but what about all of those poor, dazed people that you left in such a hurry? I know one or two men who were particularly excited to give you a little gift before you left." She chuckled quietly.

"I know those men and I know their gifts. I could always receive them tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or years after that. Perhaps they will be knocking at my door for the rest of my life."

"And where's your husband in all of this? Can't he tell them to go away?"

"I don't have a husband," she said confidently, looking into his green eyes. His smile widened.

"Good."

"I'm sorry?"

"You won't be," much to her surprise, he leaned forward and placed a surprisingly gentle kiss on her lips. Something in the back of her mind told her to push him away or spit in his thin face but she simply could not bring herself to do it. She grabbed the edges of her skirt in her hands again and squeezed them tightly before pulling away to take a breath in. "You bastard," she panted playfully.

"Basta, actually," he said, "and you?"

"Roxanne," she gave him her hand and he kissed it. It was then that she noticed the sack tied with a strip of leather around his neck. "What's that?"

He quickly grabbed it and placed it beneath his shirt where it rested, an awkward bulge, against his chest. "It's my good luck charm. And from what I can see, it's working pretty well."

She laughed a real, unabashed laugh (so rare for a woman like her.) After another farewell kiss and a promise for another kiss tomorrow she turned on her heel and waltzed dazedly into the next corridor. She wasn't sure where she was going nor did she care until (again) she bumped into another man, this one clothed in the red and black suit of a fire dancer. "I was hoping for a kiss, too," he said, "but I guess bumping into you will have to do."

"I know you. You're the fire dancer that's friends with the Black Prince. Dustfinger. What do you want?" she asked in a tone that implied that she wanted to be left alone to her own thoughts. Her eyes roamed over his soot-stained hands and cocky grin.

"I want to warn you."

"Oh, really?"

"That man," Dustfinger pointed down the corridor that Basta had just left, "is dangerous. I'd be careful around him if I were you."

"Well, you're not me and you seem to be under the impression that I can't take care of myself."

"Oh, no, no, no," Dustfinger made a mock-offended face and shook his hands, "I'd just hate to see such a beautiful, strong woman fall prey to his knife." She looked at him with an expression full of suspicion.

"Knife?" she asked warily. But Dustfinger just shook his head sadly.

"Good bye Roxanne. Believe you me when I say that I hope to see you again very, very soon in the future."

!Page Break!

Bored and Rather Annoying Me with Nothing Better to Do: Hey *poke* hey *poke* hey *poke* hey *poke*

Me: *grumbles. Bent over keyboard, typing furiously*

BRAMNB: hey *poke* hey *jab* hey *stab*

Me: *grumbles something obscene* WHAT?!

BRAMNB: One of your readers wants you to start doing dialogues again.

Me: *goes back to typing and muttering. Begins to salivate* Ugh, this *bleep bleep*ing *bleep*er-*bleep*ing eye gouging writer's block!

BRAMNB: ….okay. Well, are you going to possibly maybe try to attempt to do a double update to make up for missing your deadline of Friday? And then at the same time try to update the three other stories that you're working on? Hey *poke* is your writer's block back? Hey, you should apologize for all the grammar/structure mistakes made in your earlier chapters that you are also working on. Hey *poke* hey *poke* hey.

Me: Poke me one more time, I dare you.

BRAMNB:….*pooooooooooke*

[BRAMNB's body is now tied to an airplane heading for Peru] Thanks for reading!


	19. When Basta Met Capricorn

When Basta Met Capricorn – Age….er…Seven

Basta narrowed his eyes and frowned, using a look that he had been practicing a lot lately.

He surveyed the kids playing in the green field below him with a certain sense of superiority. He could play catchball better than them, he was sure of it, but no one had asked him to play yet. So there he stood, arms crossed in front of his chest, glaring down at the laughing children with disgust. Suddenly, the sound of screaming horses and a man's angry shouting filled the air. Startled, Basta turned to look and found that there was a bit of a commotion on the yellow dirt path leading up to the field. A band of travel-weary men had formed a half-circle around a young boy who was struggling to get to his feet. A dappled pony lay next to him, twitching and whinnying, surrounded by scattered baggage. The boy must have fallen off of his horse and, in the process, injured the horse's leg. Basta grinned devilishly as he watched a young man in a fine suit jump off of his horse and start reprimanding the child using harsh tones and a flat palm. For reasons that he could not explain, Basta liked that man. He liked the way that the silver buckles on his black leather boots flashed angrily in the sun. He liked the way that he held his head cocked angrily to the side. He admired the way that his voice, when he told the men to, "clean this mess up and rearrange the baggage between yourselves. Well, don't just stand there! Get moving, you lazy lot of sheep," made the men around him cower in fear. Although the man could not have been more than four, five years older than most of the men he spoke to them as if they were nothing more than misbehaving children. That's why Basta couldn't help tensing slightly as he watched the man climb the hill that he was sitting atop. For a minute the man stood above him, running his finger along his bottom lip and staring at the children in the field. Then he turned and scrutinized Basta with such intensity that soon the young boy began to fill quite uncomfortable. Finally he spoke in a voice that commanded as much worship as it did obedience. "You, boy, why aren't you playing with those children down there?"

Basta wrinkled his nose. "They're dirty. Nothing more than the sons and daughters of vagabonds and maids," he lied. The man raised his eyebrows.

"Yes? And what would you do with them if you were, say, about my age?

"I'd make them all work for me!" Basta cried passionately, "I'd make the women maids – well, I'd make her my wife," he pointed to a young girl with raven-black hair, "and I'd split the men into two groups: soldiers and henchman. The soldiers would perform small tasks and guard my castle and I'd have to make sure that the henchman are completely loyal to me because I will make them perform the more important tasks like…like waging war against my enemies and bringing what I most desi-" Basta quickly shut his mouth. He had spoken too much. He just knew the man would hit him now. He squished his eyes shut and tensed his shoulders, but the blow never came. Hesitant, he looked up at the man, expecting to see a raised hand but instead he found himself staring into a surprised pair of silvery-blue eyes. The man lowered his finger and began to rub his hairless chin. "That's brilliant," he muttered, gazing over at his men who were currently trying to pile all of the spilled provisions on one bucking horse. He looked back at Basta with something akin to interest, "What is your name, boy?"

"Basta,"

"Basta?"

"Basta, sir."

The man smiled, nothing more, really, than a small lift at the corners of his lips, "Well, Basta, I am Capricorn: Lord of the soon to be Fire Raisers. In a year or so my name and the name of my most loyal men will be known all over this world. It will be spoken in awe and adoration for I _will_ become the most powerful man that this world has ever seen. I'd be delighted if a boy as intelligent as yourself joined my…army."

Basta gasped. Was this really happening? Was the man speaking the truth? For a moment he envisioned himself riding on the back of a powerful steed, proudly wearing his master's colors as he and Capricorn rode side-by-side into war. Capricorn, seeing the lusty gleam in the boy's eye, chuckled. "Now, now. You'll have to wait a few years. I only want full-bodied men in my service, not reckless young boys like Cockerell over there…" he paused and glared at the child who had fallen off of his horse and was glaring back up at him, "and I am not looking for an equal, only a faithful servant. Do you understand that much?" Basta, humbled and, truthfully, a bit disheartened, looked down at his shoes. He envisioned himself in a black suit, on his hands and knees, polishing his master's shoes. But still! To work under such a powerful, ambitious man…Basta looked up and Capricorn was annoyed to see that the sparkle had returned to the young boy's eye. "I do, sir!" Suddenly the boy frowned, "but my father…"

"-will be proud. In ten years tell him the noble lord Capricorn has requested that you come and work for him. By then he shall know my name and be honored to have a son working under me," suddenly, as if remembering some important matter of business, Capricorn turned on his heel and began his descent down the hill. "Cockerell," Basta heard him call, "wipe that smirk off of your face, you'll be riding with Alphonso on the way back. Yes, not so happy now, are we?"

_Later…_

The sun had drifted off long ago and now the moon shone unabashedly, lusty in the midnight blue sky. The stars were out now, and together they formed brilliant little clusters and shapes to mimic the clouds. Still, Basta sat upon the hill, breathing in the smell of the lush, spring grass and listening to the sounds of the night. The children in the field had left long ago as well as Capricorn's men, but he did not mind. Tonight he just wanted to think, ponder, imagine, and wander. Alone. Images of himself working for Capricorn kept flashing through his mind and he held on to these images with fervent interest instead of the thoughts of the beatings that he would receive when he returned home. "In a couple of years, father wouldn't dare to beat me," he whispered to the stars. They winked and shivered encouragingly, "I'll be so big and strong that he'll cower in fear whenever he hears someone speak my name. And then I'll buy a house for mother and she won't have to work as a maid anymore." He smiled. "Everyone will know my name."

To be continued….

Me, if I were One of the Readers, which I Kind of Am: To be continued? Now, that doesn't make any sense –

Me: You don't make any sense.

MIORIKA:...what I mean to say is…how do you plan on continuing this story? He met Capricorn and he's going to join him in a couple of years. Poof. It should be done.

Me: Yes, well, I've decided that I wanted to add a little more action and excitement to these chapters. Up until now it's all been romance and retelling, but I had this awesome idea for When Basta meets Capricorn Part Two where…aw, should I spoil it?

MIORIKA: Go 'head.

Me: Well…all I'm going to say is that there's going to be a competition.

MIORIKA: In the second part of this story?

Me: Yes. And Basta will be…seventeen, so there will be plenty of room for fangirls/boys to squeal over his seventeen-year-old-Basta-ish-ness. *in a creepy voice* It's going to be really awesome. Hey, did you get that the 'young girl with raven-black hair' was Roxanne?

MOIRIKA: Mmmm, no.

Me: Yeah, well, she was….GET OUT OF HERE!


End file.
